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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29667417">Not the Only Way to Go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0ymilk/pseuds/s0ymilk'>s0ymilk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout: New Vegas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Boone, Bisexual Male Courier, Boone is a socially awkward wreck of a human being, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Indigenous Courier, M/M, Native American Courier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sexual Content, Six doesn't remember their trauma so it's like it never happened, Somehow they manage not to kill each other, Specifically the Courier is Hualapai, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, This Story Has A Happy Ending I Promise, definitely slow burn because Boone is demisexual AF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:27:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>44,157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29667417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0ymilk/pseuds/s0ymilk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Craig Boone is a broken man, wasting his life on whiskey and regret. He doesn't want Six to save him. Six may not be in a position to save anyone. </p><p>(Male!Courier version, slow burn, canon compliant, Boone's POV)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Craig Boone/Courier (Fallout), Craig Boone/Male Courier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First thing: there is a male!Courier version, a female!Courier version, and a non-binary!Courier version of this fic. This happened because I started writing it with a female MC, then halway through switched to a male MC, then decided I liked both versions and thought it would be fun to expand to an enby version as well.</p><p>Six is ultimately the same person in all three versions, so pick whichever one tickles your pickle and you won't really miss anything. I try to limit the changes to what Six wears in certain scenes, how Six interacts with other people in some situations, and certain choices of sexual partners (so I don't violate anyone's canon sexuality). Since I'm manually changing the pronouns and other details in each version, please do let me know if I miss a change somewhere so I can fix it.</p><p>In this version, there is light discussion of homophobia (as in, Boone acknowledges that homophobia exists as a concept) and Boone eventually struggles a bit with being attracted to a man for the first time in his life. I don't really plan to have detailed plot points involving homophobia or violence against queer characters due to their sexuality, because we have plenty of other issues for the characters to work through. Depending on how the story evolves, that may change a little bit, but that's my intention going in and I will give warnings if that changes. There are no other warnings specific to the male!Courier version.</p><p>I typically include chapter-specific warnings at the bottom of each chapter for people to check out (usually only for things that are above and beyond canon events), and I'm always happy to update the tags if anyone has specific suggestions or needs. Just drop me a line. Note the tags - suicidal ideation, PTSD, and war crimes are huge topics in this fic, so please keep that in mind as you read.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sunlight is stretching in long, tired rays across the Mojave as Craig Boone carefully disassembles his sniper rifle piece by piece on an old towel spread across the ground. Underneath him, the cracked clay and sand are still throwing off a bit of heat in the cooling air, warm against his thighs. The winds have been still today; good for weapons cleaning. No extra grit getting stuck in the gun oil. Boone pulls another piece off and sets it down carefully. </p><p>The residents of Novac are starting to turn in for the night. He can smell meat cooking somewhere. In a few hours, Boone will head up into the Dinosaur for his night shift and spend every minute until 9 AM staring out into the wasteland. For now, he focuses on the pieces of his rifle spread out across the towel, exploded apart like the shrapnel in a frag grenade, and gets to cleaning. Trouble is always just on the horizon. </p><p>Boone has already seen and identified the two individuals walking towards him before he can even hear their footsteps crunching on the hard ground. Not so much walking towards him as ambling along the path that crosses in front of his line of sight. Boone methodically screws a brush head onto a piece of his cleaning gear to start scraping away the carbon caked on his rifle. Jeannie May’s distinct twang echoes across the open space. </p><p>“Some merchant came through earlier saying something about a courier for the Mojave Express coming back from the dead. Said he’d been shot through the head and survived. Don’t that beat all?” </p><p>Her companion, Dr. Straus, shrugs noncommittally. Boone could have told Jeannie May that Straus doesn’t give a shit about couriers or the Mojave Express. She’s likely only putting up with the small talk because she’s high. Jeannie May, on the other hand, will keep talking whether you give a shit or not. As somebody that doesn’t much like conversation, Boone can appreciate that. Makes his job easier the few times he’s forced to socialize. Though he and Jeannie May aren’t exactly the best of friends. </p><p>They meander past, kicking up small bursts of dirt that drift in the dead air, and disappear into the mess of houses situated behind Novac’s run-down hotel. Not so much as a look in either direction. It’s been quiet enough here lately that the residents are getting complacent. Boone huffs a sigh of displeasure to himself and starts pulling at the pieces of duct tape wrapped around the barrel of the rifle. They leave a sticky residue across his palms. A fresh strip keeps the stock together; he tapes until the press of the buttstock into his shoulder is steady and his aim is true. </p><p>Later that night, as he’s at his post inside the dinosaur, he thinks like he does every night about the knotted rope stashed inside the wardrobe in his motel room and the thick, exposed metal pipe running across the ceiling of his bathroom. Just like every other night, he reminds himself that he still has something to take care of. He can’t go anywhere yet. </p><p>The night drifts on, and the stillness of the Mojave rolls over him, minute by aching minute. </p><p>--</p><p>He hears a rumour from Cliff, the gift shop owner, that Nipton has been sacked. A merchant caravan found it razed to the ground, most of the houses on fire. Crosses had been erected along the main strip through the town, each with a dead citizen. Someone had shot every single one of them through the temple. </p><p><em>Guess it’s the work of the Legion, </em>Cliff says, <em>but they said a whole squad of Legionaries was found dead in the town too. Blown apart. Guess somebody set frag mines and they just walked right into them. Nobody knows who did it. </em></p><p>Legionaries, this far west. It puts a knot in Boone’s stomach. If somebody had retaliated, that just means that another attack is that much more likely. </p><p>Somebody out there has some balls, though. Killing a squad of Legionaries is tough damn work. </p><p>--</p><p>The days are steadily getting longer as spring blooms in the Mojave. It takes him by surprise every year - one day Boone’s living his days in total darkness from the moment he wakes up to the moment he falls into bed, and then like a specter, the sun creeps faster and faster towards the horizon. Too soon, the gentle warmth of the spring daylight will turn into searing summer heat, so he tries to appreciate this time of year whenever it comes around. </p><p>It’s been getting cloudy out more often, but they haven’t seen any rain since last year. The sun is high in the sky, has been for a couple hours now. Boone checks his watch. Close to nine. Only a few more minutes before he can return to his hotel room and attempt to drift off into restless sleep. </p><p>The rumble of voices rises up through the door to Boone’s ears. Cliff, conducting shopkeeping, and someone else that he doesn’t recognize. A merchant maybe, or a drifter. Not his problem. Boone lifts his rifle to his shoulder and sweeps his gaze across the road in front, looking for movement. Nothing. No-bark Noonan had been out earlier this morning, wandering around and talking to himself like he often does. Boone doesn’t trust that son of a bitch as far as he can throw him. If No-Bark feels the weight of Boone’s crosshairs on his back as he wanders, he never shows it. </p><p>Something is still killing brahmin at the McBride’s farm; Boone’s been keeping an eye out, but he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of anything that might be the culprit. Probably it’s coming from the west, whatever it is. </p><p>A door bangs downstairs; the voices inside the dinosaur stop briefly, then start up again. A short conversation, and then familiar footsteps trudge up the stairs and the door at Boone’s back is eased open. </p><p>Boone waits until his replacement is fully in and ready to take over, then lifts his rifle barrel to the sky and heads for the door. Manny Vargas doesn’t say anything to him, and he doesn’t spare the former Khan even a glance. They part, just as they’ve done for months now, with no interaction. </p><p>Inside the dinosaur, Cliff is talking animatedly to someone on the other side of the counter, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. Cliff is normally reserved, has a hard time talking with people.  Especially with strangers, and this person is definitely a stranger. It’s odd enough to catch Boone’s interest. </p><p>The drifter looks up in his direction. Dark brown eyes set into a tan face with high cheekbones flick up and down his figure nearly imperceptibly. The man has long, dark hair pulled back neatly into a braid. Not unique, but unusual for certain. A worn leather chestplate over a light linen button-up, the sleeves rolled up around the forearms. Extra leather guards on the forearms. The marks of a mercenary, or somebody who spends a lot of time out in the Mojave. Good colours. They’ll blend into the surroundings better, make it harder to get a bead on. </p><p>The man smiles at him in too friendly a manner, showing straight, clean teeth. Teeth say a lot about a person. Boone continues walking, not bothering to even remove his sunglasses. </p><p>“Well, he seems like a talkative one.” Boones hear behind him before the door swings shut. He doesn’t bother listening for Cliff’s response. </p><p>Later that day, he empties the last of a flask of whiskey into his mouth and tosses it across the room. It hits the door with a thud, but mercifully doesn’t break. Head spinning, Boone sinks back into the rumpled sheets on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He might have overdone a little bit; he’s feeling a little green in the gills, like if he tried to close his eyes, he might lose the contents of his stomach. </p><p>A thud above him, the sound of footsteps. Jeannie May must have rented out a room. There were days when Boone would have known exactly who it was she rented to, would have compiled their personal information in a little file in his head in case he needed it later. Relative height, for lining up a shot. Temperament, chance they’d cause trouble. Condition of armour, if worn - if the first shot isn’t a kill, it puts you at a hell of a disadvantage as a sniper. He needs to know if a shot to the chest is going to be blocked by anything substantial. </p><p>Now, he listens to the footsteps pacing around the room and tries to stop everything from spinning out of control around him. As much practice as he’s had at that, both with liquor and in life, he’s never gotten much good at it. </p><p>The footsteps pace to the door. It opens; closes; the footsteps disappear down the walkway. Boone sighs, and then stumbles up and into the bathroom, thankful the toilet lid is already up. </p><p>--</p><p>He wakes up with a start, as usual, a few hours later, still mostly drunk. The sun beats down into the room past the moldy curtains. He needs to replace them with something darker and sturdier, but he’s never gotten around to it. He figures he’ll still sleep like shit either way. </p><p>It’s only just now four o’clock. He doesn’t go on shift until nine. Groaning, Boone squeezes his eyes shut against the merciless sun and rolls over. </p><p>As he drifts, his brain passes through an endless series of pictures, one after another. Bitter Springs. The tents at Camp Golf, set up in endless lines leading up to the ugly old resort that served as headquarters. Carla’s neck as she bends over the sink washing dishes. That same neck, sliced in half by the collar wrapped around it, crosshairs sliding up to focus on the mass of chestnut-brown clipped to the back of her head. She’d always liked that clip. Silver, with little pieces of turquoise in it. Boone doesn’t remember where he found it. </p><p><em>Bang. </em>His finger twitches as he pulls the trigger for the thousandth time. Sighing, Boone crawls out of bed wearily and goes to splash water on his face. </p><p>He shows up, as he usually does, an hour before his shift is supposed to start. Manny takes one look at his face, sunglasses still on despite the rapidly approaching darkness, and leaves. Suits him just fine. He takes the sunglasses off, clips them onto the front of his shirt, and gets to business. The Mojave is deathly quiet. </p><p>Boone still struggles sometimes during these long nights of watch, though not as much as the beginning. Too many things to remember, too little self discipline to push those memories away. He’s had plenty of time to work on it, and he mostly does okay now. Sometimes he gets to shoot things, which helps. He brings the sight up to his eye. </p><p>The dark expanse now lights up in brilliant shades of green. There, he sees a flash of movement. A hare, tentatively hopping out from the protective embrace of a bush. There, a slender four-legged form slinks over a ridge. The coyote lifts its head to the moon and howls. The hare darts back under the bush. </p><p>It’s so very simple. Life, surviving as best it can in the harshest of places. If only humans were so straightforward. Boone checks the empty road - almost always empty, nobody travels at night - and goes back to watching the story of the desert unfold before him. </p><p>Every night, this. Minute after aching minute. </p><p>---</p><p>A few days later, around midnight, the darkness is split by a quiet sound down below. Not Cliff; he leaves around the same time Boone takes over watch every night, never shows back up after hours. It might be Jeannie May, or somebody else, coming to tell him something or ask him if he’s seen anything suspicious. Might be McBride, still trying to save his brahmin. Been a long time since someone visited him on watch, though; it’s unusual enough that his heartbeat kicks up a notch, wondering what it might be. </p><p>The door clicks open behind him. He’s already standing in the corner behind the door, where he can keep an eye out towards the desert and still see whoever is coming in. The head that pokes in is not the one he would have expected. </p><p>For reasons unknown, the dark-haired stranger gives Boone another friendly grin, identical to the last one he’d shot Boone’s way, and comes out of the doorway fully, shutting the door behind himself. Boone watches him, an unamused frown on his face. </p><p>“I was told I’d find you here.” he says by way of greeting. Boone’s mind buzzes through the possibilities of what that statement might mean and comes up blank. </p><p>“What do you want?” he says. It sounds harsh because he means it that way. He has no interest in… whatever it is he wants. He asks only because he knows it’s the fastest way to get people to leave. If it’s not information that will help him do his job better, he doesn’t need to hear it. </p><p>The smile doesn’t move an inch. This man is more persistent than most. In a blatant show, Boone looks down from his face to the pistol on his hip. 10 millimeter, good condition. The holster looks handmade, but not shoddy. It’s excellent workmanship, from somebody who knows how to treat leather properly. </p><p>“I just wanted to admire the view. If that’s okay.” the man says. It’s like he takes amusement from Boone’s disinterest. That annoys him. </p><p>“I think you’d better leave.” Boone says tersely. “I have a town to protect. You’re distracting me.” He turns away slightly to glance out across the desert once more, half to keep up his watch and half to turn his back to the stranger in dismissal. Still quiet out there. But there’s always a chance this stranger could be a decoy; safer to keep a watch out. </p><p>“Easy, now. I think you can do a fine job of that, even with me here.” the tan-skinned man says lightly. Something catches Boone’s eyesight in the distance; he raises his rifle, sighting down the scope, and sees a tumbleweed bouncing across the ground. </p><p>The stranger moves a few steps forward, crossing his arms to lean on one of the blunt teeth of the dinosaur and look out across the land. Boone immediately feels better now that he doesn’t feel so <em>watched</em>; his skin stops prickling uncomfortably, his brain unfogs, and he takes in a deep breath to release the tension from his shoulders. </p><p>The silence only lasts for a moment. </p><p>“It’s not often I get to see a view of the desert like this.” the stranger says in that ‘just making conversation’ tone that Boone hates. “It’s pretty. Must be nice to just sit up here and watch it all go by.” </p><p>It’s just a passing remark, but it’s so close to what Boone often thinks himself that it makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t like it when strangers seem to know him too well. Doesn’t much like it when anyone seems to know him too well. He likes his thoughts secure in his own head and for others to keep their damn distance. His trigger finger is starting to get itchy. </p><p>“I don’t think I’ve ever been to Novac before. Guess I’ve never had reason to pass through this way. I’ll be sad to leave.” the stranger glances over quickly, just takes in Boone from the corner of his eye and before looking back out at the desert. “Are you from here originally?” </p><p><em>Be sad to leave.</em> Wait. It’s as sudden as if a bell dings in his head, the way the thought hits him. </p><p>“You’re not from here.” Boone says suddenly, lowering his rifle. It’s easier to look over at the man now with a plan spinning around in his head. Boone isn’t trapped in the grips of awkward small talk anymore; he’s examining the drifter carefully instead, thinking about the ease at which he draws people into conversation, about how he might be able to use that to find out information that Boone never could. </p><p>The stranger turns so that he’s facing Boone, still leaning on the dinosaur tooth. His long hair tumbles over one shoulder. The neat braid dangles almost to his thigh. He’s smiling again, the bright white of his teeth barely dimmed in the moonlight. </p><p>“I’m not. But I’m sticking around for at least one more night. That mean something in particular to you?”</p><p>It’s easier to pitch the idea than it should be. Easier than it should be, because as reckless as Boone’s been in his life, this is the most reckless thing he’s done in a while, and he’s sick from the top of his head to the tip of his boots of sitting around and wasting away. So he asks. It might be nice even if it doesn’t work out, because at least he’s finally tried. </p><p>“I want you to find something out for me.” he starts. The stranger blinks, smile fading off his face. “I don’t know if there’s anything to find, but I need someone to try.” </p><p>This is the hard part. He feels his mouth go dry, as if the words are trying to stop themselves from coming out. There’s a long pause. The stranger doesn’t say anything. With a hard swallow, voice a little raspy, Boone manages to keep talking. </p><p>“My wife was taken from our home by Legion slavers one night while I was on watch.” Another swallow. “They knew when to come and what route to take, and they only took Carla. Someone set it up. I don’t know who.”</p><p>The drifter frowns, the space between his eyebrows crinkling as he listens. His air of easiness is gone. </p><p> As a stray cloud passes over the moon, the inside of the dinosaur grows dim, wrapping them both in darkness. A bad night to put plans in motion, maybe. Too many things could go wrong. But if Boone waits any longer, he might as well run out of patience for waiting. Anyway, he’s too the point where if it goes wrong, he’s not sure he gives a shit. He just wants it to be over.  </p><p>“You’re trying to track down your wife?” the stranger prompts.</p><p>This part is easy to say. The words come out without any thought on Boone’s part, like bullets thunking into flesh in a harsh staccato. </p><p>“My wife’s dead. I want the son of a bitch who sold her.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 1 warnings: a detailed mention of suicidal ideation including method, violent dreams, alcoholism.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>By the way, the title of this fic comes from Marty Robbins' 'Leaving's Not the Only Way to Go'.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn’t hear anything for several days. Boone spends his watches listening for any sign of movement below and his days staring at the ceiling, leg jiggling with restless, manic energy. He’s more tired than he’s ever been before, but his eyes feel like they’ve been pinned open. He thrashes so hard during the short periods of sleep that he wakes up multiple times in a row on the floor, tangled in sheets. He’s disoriented when he’s awake, constantly looking for things in his apartment, wondering if he’d moved them and forgotten where to. He finds his combat knife in the fridge one day and just stops taking things off altogether when he tries to sleep. </p><p>Nobody talks to him. Nobody gives him a sideways look or does anything to suggest that the man has told them what Boone’s asked of him. Boone had sort of expected that he would, is surprised and grateful that he doesn’t. </p><p>On the third night after the stranger had come to visit, Boone spots movement on the road. He doesn’t even need his rifle sight to see the two figures strolling along the road; the full moon makes it easy to pick them out. One is wearing a faded white nightgown with a plaid dressing gown hastily thrown over it, large glasses perched on her nose. The other has on a set of pajamas, matching top and bottom like you see sometimes in old magazines from before the war. Dark blue, shiny. </p><p>There’s no reason for his contact to be strolling around with Jeannie May Crawford at three o’clock in the morning. But Boone waits to take the shot. He’s going to give a signal. Boone has to wait for it. A strange buzzing fills his brain; his finger tries to slip down to rest on the trigger, something years of training has cemented him against. </p><p>As they’re walking, exchanging brief conversation, Boone sees the stranger pull something out of his pocket casually. They’re crossing the intersection of the road now, his contact leading them to the mound of dirt and debris just on the other side. Slightly higher ground, good for a clean shot. A dark red beret, just a smudge of gray under the moonlight, is pulled over his contact’s head. He does it clumsily, like he’s never worn a beret before. </p><p>Boone doesn’t waste a moment. Before his contact has even lowered his hands, Boone feels the butt of the rifle kick back into his shoulder. When his sights lower back down, Jeannie May’s body is laying across the dirt mound, glasses cracked and hanging off one ear. The stranger is frozen in place, still holding onto the lopsided beret with one hand. </p><p>--</p><p>The stranger meets Boone up at his station. He’s pulled the beret from his head and has it in one hand as he shuts the door behind himself again. His hair is mussed and loose, either from sleep or from the beret. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t offer Boone a smile. </p><p>“How did you know?” Boone asks. It makes sense. Jeannie May had never liked Carla. But Jeannie’s not the only one. Manny hadn’t liked Carla either. Boone had never really believed that Manny did it, but…. Well. Manny is another story. </p><p>The stranger holds the beret out to him, letting him swipe it from his fingers with no complaint. He looks tired. No trace of friendliness now.</p><p>“I found the bill of sale.” the man says shortly. Boone stares at him for a moment, then feels a sudden surge of laughter bubbling up in his chest as he digests the words. A <em>bill of sale. </em>How fucking perfect. </p><p>“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” he says, because he doesn’t want to laugh about this. “It’d be like them to keep paperwork.” </p><p>His head has felt strange without his beret on these last few days. He finds that he’s set his rifle down against the wall without thinking and tugged the beret on. His fingers have gone through this routine a million times now, it must be. But he’s not usually one to let go of his rifle with a stranger so close by. His body is going on auto-pilot and he doesn’t like it. </p><p>Numbly, Boone figures that the man is still here waiting for some form of payment. He digs one hand into a trouser pocket and scrapes out all he has that hasn’t been wasted on whiskey or ammo. </p><p>“This is all I can give.” he says. It’s a meager 100 caps, but the man accepts it all the same. “I think we’re done here.” </p><p>The man glances at the caps, puts them into the breast pocket of his matching blue pajamas, but he doesn’t leave. He’s studying Boone in a way that makes Boone’s skin itch, his head tilted just so. </p><p>“What are you going to do after this?” the man asks softly, still looking at Boone in that terrible, invasive way. </p><p>Boone is too dog tired to be annoyed. His brain is not coping with the idea that his whole reason for staying here is finally over and his hands are itching for a cigarette or a drink. He answers more honestly than he probably would in other circumstances. </p><p>“I don’t know. Not staying here, I know that.” he starts. Well, maybe that’s not so true. There’s always the rope, and the metal pipe in the bathroom. He doesn’t really need to go anywhere to actually leave, it seems. But maybe he owes a little more for what he’s done. </p><p>He adds, “Don’t see much point in anything right now, except hunting legionaries.” </p><p>That could be a good way to go, instead. Given time, he could buy himself some frag grenades and some spare ammo. Sneak as far into one of their camps as possible, try to do some real damage. It wouldn’t be going out in a blaze of glory, but it would still be worth it, probably. </p><p>He’s so focused on this train of thought that he misses whatever the man says next. The stranger must catch that from his blank look, because he repeats himself patiently. </p><p>“I said, why don’t you come with me? The wasteland’s not easy to travel on your own. I could use a sharp eye out there.” </p><p>Boone looks at him, and finds the idea… not as repugnant as he thought he would. Not any worse of an idea than his others, anyway. 100 caps isn’t much payback for what he’d done for Boone. He’d have paid a lot more than that to avenge Carla, so maybe he has some debt to settle. </p><p>Besides, Boone has always been a follower. He joined the NCR because it gave him direction. Married Carla because she was okay letting him trail after her like a lost puppy. Stayed here in Novac because without someone telling him what to do, he’s no more than a puppet with broken strings. He’s not expecting to find purpose again - thinks purpose isn’t what’s waiting for him out in the Mojave - but it could be something, anyway. </p><p>“You don’t want to do that.” Boone says to the stranger. Just to warn him. The stranger deserves a hell of a lot better warning than that, but words have never been Boone’s strong suit, so it’ll have to do. </p><p>The man’s grin is so surprisingly <em>pleased </em>that Boone finds himself nearly reeling back from it, as if the drifter had reached out and slapped him across the face. Those clean, even teeth are too much with the two of them so close together. Boone is used to having hundreds of yards and a scope between him and a smile like that. </p><p>“You a lone wolf? I thought snipers worked in teams.” the man’s reply is laced with good humour as their first encounter had been, before he’d brought up his request. It’s still just as off-putting. Maybe even a little more off-putting now. The man shouldn’t be treating him so lightly after what had just happened.  </p><p>“I’m just saying. It’s not gonna end well.” </p><p>Boone’s second warning, and the stranger still doesn’t listen. Well, there’s nothing he can do about that. </p><p>It feels… right, somehow. He’s taken care of his business in Novac. It’s time to move on. And this opportunity, coming right on the tail of that? Maybe it was meant to be. Boone’s put off his just reward for too long. He can’t hide from it forever. </p><p>--</p><p>Boone thought the questions were bad before, during their first meeting. They don't hold a candle to the interrogation he gets now that they're traveling companions. How old is he, was he in 1st Recon, where was he stationed, why was he staying in Novac. Boone answers in short sentences, even refusing some questions, and still he's talked more in one night than he has in the last six months. </p><p>They hadn't stayed in Novac after....after. Not really any reason to, and there's always a chance that somebody might put two and two together, though he's told his companion he doesn't really expect that to happen. Instead, with the light of the full moon shining strong across the whorls and ridges of the Mojave, Boone had returned to his hotel room and stuffed his meager world possessions into a small pack - a scuffed leather jacket, his weapons cleaning gear, a roll of duct tape. A tin mess kit that he’d stubbornly held onto after he left the NCR, even as Carla insisted he wouldn't need it (one thing she was finally wrong about, seeing as how he couldn't bring himself to use those pretty dishes she'd always loved after she'd been taken). After some deliberation, he'd taken the jacket back out, shrugged it on, and strapped his sleeping bag to the top of his pack. His companion had taken in his absurd lack of possessions with a calm eye and, for once, no questions. </p><p>The man goes by Six. He offers no explanation for why that is, and Boone doesn’t ask. Boone didn’t actually ask for a name either, just listened as Six talked briefly about where he was going and what he was looking for. Guy named Benny, check. Stolen possession, check. As long as he gets to kill any Legion he sees along the way, and Six doesn’t tangle with the NCR, he doesn’t much care. </p><p>They mutually decide to stop for the night at an old gas station on the side of the road that looks abandoned. The inside is little more than a one-room shack, with rusted metal shelves taking up most of the interior and a small space cordoned off by a counter and a broken cash register. With some of the shelves lifted and pushed into one corner, there’s just enough space to stretch out with their things. Everything is laid out before Six shuts the door, so he can wedge a chair under it as a lock and not make them hunt around in the dark for too long. </p><p>The feel of hard concrete floor under Boone’s back as he stretches out in his sleeping bag is more familiar to him than the softness of his mattress had ever been, back in Novac. He’s folded his jacket up and shoved it under his head for a makeshift pillow. The scent of the leather and the dusty smell of the sleeping bag make his eyelids blink once, slow, and then droop. He’s <em>tired, </em>but not in the way Novac had made him tired. Maybe tired in a better way. Tired like he’s been working towards something for a long time, and it’s finally over.  </p><p>Boone hears Six moving around in the dark, trying and failing to make it to his own sleeping arrangements without bumping into anything. His choice in curse words is creative. Finally, the rustling of fabric stops and all is silent. </p><p>Being in First Recon means that you’re bunking down with your squad, or at least a roommate, almost all of the time. Boone sometimes thinks he finds somebody else’s slow breaths in the darkness more comfortable than hearing his just his own. He hadn’t realized how true that really was until now, feeling warm and drowsy and strangely restful in this empty gas station laying next to a veritable stranger.</p><p>“You don’t talk much, do you?” Six asks quietly. Boone closes his eyes, shifts in the sleeping bag to untwist the fabric around his feet. He doesn’t talk much. It’s his defining characteristic, that he doesn’t talk much, and where he would think people would be happy to be listened to a little more, mostly it makes them uncomfortable. </p><p>He takes a long minute to answer. “No need to.” he says. Better to play it that way, that it’s deliberate. That it’s not just him fumbling for words, taking too long to vocalize and getting left behind in the process. After the last two years of being alone, he’s lost what little skill he had before, even. </p><p>There’s a rustle of fabric off in the darkness. Boone finds himself listening attentively for a reply, realizes that he is just the tiniest bit invested in it. He thought he’d stopped worrying about that a long time ago, but maybe old habits and human characteristics die hard. </p><p>“Probably the right way to go about it.” Six says easily. “I’ve been told I could have a conversation with a brick wall, I talk so much. So I guess we’ll balance each other out.” </p><p>Boone blinks, takes that in. It must be the last Six has to say about it, because he doesn’t hear any more before he drifts off to sleep. </p><p>--</p><p>They head for Boulder City. Six seems alarmed by the rubble of the old settlement, as if he hadn’t been aware about the first Battle of Hoover Dam. Which is impossible unless he’s been living under a rock since he came to the area. </p><p>Near the middle of the ruins, they spot two soldiers standing post behind sand-bag walls. Boone raises his hand in greeting, lets them sight in on his beret so they know not to open fire. </p><p>The two NCR boys look like they’re on their last legs. Huge dark circles stain the underside of their eyes, and their reactions to Boone and Six are just a little too slow for comfort. They’ve clearly been run into the ground. </p><p>“Gentlemen.” one, a sergeant, of them says curtly. He addresses Boone with a respectful nod, eyes lingering on his beret. “The area is currently restricted, there’s a situation going on.”</p><p>Boone knows abstractly that Six is silver-tongued, had seen it partially in motion with Cliff. But he apparently doesn’t know the full extent of it. Not until he sees the physical way that Six’s body changes as he approaches the soldiers on post. Six’s shoulders go loose and his posture opens up. He gives the two that short nod that men use as a greeting, but then smiles in an easy-going kind of way. Just a good ol’ boy wandering the wastes, stopping to shoot the shit for a minute. Harmless. </p><p>“You fellas look beat to the ground. Long day?” </p><p>To their credit, the soldiers don’t <em>completely </em>lose their bearing. But Boone is still a little disgusted at the way they mirror Six’s easy stance, hands not leaving their weapons but going just a bit more slack than they should. They never should have let someone who’s fooled that easy into the NCR. But it needs every soldier it can get nowadays, unfortunately. </p><p>“Long day and getting longer.” says the chatty corporal. He tries to match Six’s easy smile, comes off charmed instead. “You need something? Directions?” </p><p>Six says, “Actually, I was wondering if you’d seen a man in a checked suit come through here. Dark hair, looks like he’d have a conniption if his nice, shiny shoes got scuffed?” </p><p>It’s exactly the right play. NCR soldiers work hard and they like to sling a little bullshit about how soft civilians are. The chatty corporal lets out a chuckle, and even the more reserved sergeant lets his mouth tick up at the side a little. </p><p>“No, nobody like that.” says the sergeant. “Only people in the ruins right now are a group of Great Khans.” </p><p>His eyes flick to Boone, clearly decides that it’s okay to give a few more details. “They’re holed up in there with a couple of hostages right now. The lieutenant’s trying to figure out what to do.” </p><p>“Great Khans, huh?” Six replies, with a look of deliberation. “Say, you don’t mind if I speak to your lieutenant? I might be able to help him out with that.”</p><p>The corporal nearly waves them on himself, stops at the last moment and looks to the sergeant for direction. The sergeant thinks it over for only a moment before waving them on. Boone follows, teeth gritted at the ridiculousness of the display. </p><p>Six takes a different approach to the lieutenant holding the second checkpoint. He turns the good ol’ boy off, squares his shoulders, goes for a firm handshake instead of an easy grin. </p><p>“Lieutenant. Your men told me you’re having a problem with some Khans. I’m certain I can help.” </p><p>Firm, confident but not too assertive. Meeting the lieutenant at his own level like another officer might. </p><p>The lieutenant raises an eyebrow, gives him a glance up and down, and then flicks his eyes to Boone. Boone snaps his heels together and gives a salute without thinking. The lieutenant nods curtly and salutes back. </p><p>“So, you have some connections with the Khans?” the lieutenant asks, not without a little suspicion. It’s good to see that not everyone rolls over immediately for Six’s charm. Boone doesn’t let his eyes slide over to Six, but his ears perk up for the answer. If Six <em>is </em>a Khan sympathizer, he’s going to have to rethink this whole idea. The Khans are a thorn in the NCR’s side and Boone doesn’t need to be hanging out with drug addicts or dealers, besides. </p><p>Six tilts his head respectfully in acknowledgment of the LT’s words but holds up a hand in protest. </p><p>“Nothing like that, lieutenant. A courier works with all types, and people can be pretty reasonable, if you talk to them the right way. I’m sure the Khans can be reasoned with.”</p><p>Alarmingly, though the LT looks doubtful, he stands aside and gestures them forward. </p><p>All he says to follow up is, “Just might want to be careful going in there with that red beret on. If they open fire, we’ll come in, but it'll probably be too late for you.” </p><p>A random stranger stands in front of him, meddling in a situation that could get his men killed, and he snaps it all up without another question. Disappointing. </p><p>Six turns to Boone at the beret comment and gives him an appraising look. </p><p>“You ever take that off?” he asks, nodding towards Boone’s beret. </p><p>Boone’s mouth twists. “No.” he says coldly. He’ll be NCR until the day he dies. He’s not going to hide that fact just to appease a bunch of murdering drug peddlers. </p><p>Six shrugs, not the least put off by Boone’s curtness. “Mind staying here, then? That way, nobody gets shot.” </p><p>Boone doesn’t answer. Six takes that as consent and disappears into the ruin. Boone wonders if he’s going to be walking out of here by himself. Be a little frustrating to get no farther than Boulder City before he has to trek back to Novac. </p><p>“That’s quite a partner you have there.” the lieutenant remarks after a few moments of silence, crossing his arms over his chest. “It takes a certain type to put themselves in danger like that to help someone else out.”</p><p>Boone shrugs, lets out a noncommittal ‘hmm’. “Don’t know him that well, sir. We’ve only been working together a few days.” </p><p>The lieutenant nods tiredly, his eyes still trained on the entrance to the ruins. “Well, here’s hoping he’ll prove dependable to you and me both. I’d like to bring some men and women home safe for a change.” </p><p>Boone doesn’t answer that. He’s too busy thinking about the situation, wondering what Six is getting out of all this. Nobody does things selflessly any more. Boone has seen too much evil to believe in selflessness. There must be a reason behind Six’s going in there, just like there was a reason Six - </p><p>He stops, frowns. <em>Was </em>there a reason Six had helped him? It’s not as if Boone had offered payment before Six agreed. Come to think of it, he’d been so wrapped up in avenging Carla’s death, he’d never asked why it was Six had sought him out. </p><p>Here he was, looking down his nose at these men for falling for Six’s game, and Boone had been played like a fiddle just the same.  He’s not sure how to feel about that, other than to be seriously embarrassed. Has he really become so dysfunctional that he doesn’t notice when people are leading him around by the nose? </p><p>Boone mulls over it as they wait for something to happen. It’s nearly an hour before there’s any sign of movement, just long enough that Boone is wondering if he should go in. Suddenly, there’s the crunching of gravel beyond the gate, and then a voice rings out. </p><p>“Lt. Monroe? Sir? It’s Private Gilbert. I’m coming out.” </p><p>A blonde woman in NCR armor eases out from the entrance. Her face is smeared with dirt and she’s unarmed, but otherwise she looks uninjured. Boone slots the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and brings the barrel up on the next person that comes through, but lowers it again when he sees the familiar dark hair. </p><p>“Lieutenant, I’ve told the Khans that you’ll let them through, unharmed, if they let the hostages go. Private Gilbert here is a sign of good faith on their part. Can you agree to that?” Six asks. He looks no worse for the wear. </p><p>The lieutenant frowns at him, expression unsure. “I don’t know that I can promise that. I’ve been given the order to kill the Khans, even if it means losing the hostages. We can’t just let them get away with opening fire on an NCR squad.” </p><p>This time, Six placates him with a professional smile. “I understand the logic of that, lieutenant, but I think this will be a better deterrent than opening fire. You kill them and you’re opening yourself up for a revenge scenario. This way, everybody just goes home, a little spooked but no worse for the wear. The Khans will think twice before engaging an NCR squad again.” </p><p>There’s no possible way that could work, no <em>way, </em>but Boone watches in amazement as Lt. Monroe thinks it over and then nods slowly. He’s going to do it. Against explicit orders, he’s letting the Khans go. </p><p>Boone can’t do anything but gape quietly as the lieutenant gives the order for his troops to stand down and let the Khans pass. Six ducks back into the ruins; several dozen feet in, he stops and signals to somebody. Cautiously, several figures step out from the shell of an old building and make their way through the rubble towards the entrance. One of them has his arm wrapped around the bicep of another NCR soldier with bound hands. The Khans keep their weapons pointed to the ground, but the ruins are dead silent, the tension so thick it’s choking. Boone knows that any wrong move, any flinch towards a trigger, and both sides will go out with a bang.  </p><p>Slowly, the Khans make their way forward. The Khan with the NCR soldier in tow is dead last, probably to make sure they have a fighting chance of getting out once their last poker chip has been turned over. Boone, the lieutenant, and several other soldiers step out of the way stiffly to let them pass. </p><p>He catches the eye of one of them, a burly guy with a shaved head, and the Khan spits on the ground and glares at him. </p><p>“Fucking baby-killer.” he growls lowly. Boone grits his teeth and takes one more step backwards. It looks like a concession, but really, he just needs more space if he’s going to be able to take a shot. </p><p>The last Khan, a man with a mohawk and a bandanna wrapped around his head, shoves Private Ackerman in their direction. Faster than a bullet, every one of the Khans darts for the exit and is gone in a flash. </p><p>The tension in the air seeps away once the Khans are well and truly gone. Soldiers pop up from their spots of cover while Lieutenant Monroe draws a knife and cuts the rope around Ackerman’s hands. </p><p>“You alright, Private?” he asks as Ackerman massages his wrists. The private nods and sighs in relief. </p><p>“Yes, sir. They didn’t do anything but tie us up. Was still pretty scary, though.”</p><p>Boone retreats as the round of accolades starts. Six accepts the handshakes and slaps on the back with good grace, doles a few out himself to soldiers still shaking from their adrenaline high. Gilbert and Ackerman, clearly shaken from their brush with death, thank him at least four times, and then round on Boone as well for a handshake, as if he’d somehow contributed to this whole fiasco. He lets them shake his hand and then retreats even farther before anybody else gets any ideas. </p><p>It’s a good twenty minutes before Six tracks him down. The sun is sinking below the horizon at this point; probably better to find a place to spend the night than keep going. Wherever it is they’re supposed to be going now. </p><p>Six seems to agree, because they head for one of the buildings instead of back out through the city. When they’ve found one with a working door and four mostly intact walls (if not a ceiling), he drops his pack with a relieved sigh and sprawls out along the ground. Boone deposits his things across the room and goes to find somewhere to piss and have a cigarette.</p><p>When he comes back, Six has dragged a whole heap of firewood together in the middle of the room and is trying to light it with a piece of flint and a knife. Boone watches him struggle for a minute, then steps up and gestures to take over. Six passes the tools off and watches as Boone expertly lights the pile of wood in a few scrapes. </p><p>“Thanks. Never was any good at that. <em>Man, </em>it’s been a long day.” </p><p>Boone rearranges the wood a little so that the fire will get the oxygen it needs. Within a few minutes, they have a full-fledged campfire and Six is rattling around in his pack for some type of dinner for the two of them. </p><p>The first touches of chill fill the air as wind whistles across the top of the ruined building. It makes the fire shift and sway, putting out a pulse of heat, and Boone leans back away from it so he doesn’t get a face full of flames. The pop and crackle of the campfire is soothing. Softens the silence a little bit, makes it easier to speak up. </p><p>Boone gives up feigning disinterest and just asks. It bugs him that he wants to know, but not enough to swallow his curiosity. </p><p>“What did you say to the Khans?” </p><p>Six stops digging for a moment and looks up at him, surprised. He’d been humming something to himself before Boone spoke up. The play of the firelight across his face brings out his sharp features in stark relief. Six recovers quickly and pulls a couple of cans of pork and beans from his pack, along with a can opener. </p><p>“Same thing I said to the lieutenant, mostly. That everybody wins if they’d just let the two soldiers go. They didn’t want to get into a firefight any more than the NCR did. So it wasn’t a hard sell.” </p><p>Boone flicks his eyes towards Six suspiciously. He’s not convinced by that. Great Khans, missing a chance to kill NCR subjects? It’s a stretch if he’s ever heard one. </p><p>Six catches the look on Boone’s face before he can reschool his features into blankness. For the first time since they’d met, the hint of a frown tugs at the corners of Six’s mouth as he pushes an open can into the coals by the edge of the fire. “They’re not monsters, Boone. They’re just people. People that make a lot of bad decisions, but people all the same.” </p><p>Boone doesn’t have to speak to make his disagreement with <em>that </em>heard. A disbelieving huff as he leans across his pack does that well enough for him. </p><p>“That why you helped me out, too? Because I’m ‘just people’?” he asks dubiously. Six rolls his eyes, pushes the other can into the coals, and shoves the can opener back into the top of his pack. </p><p>“Guy comes up to you, says, ‘The Legion took my wife, and somebody in town is responsible for it’, what do you expect me to say? ‘Sorry, I misplaced my conscience this morning?’” </p><p>He makes it sound simple, saying it like that. Boone <em>knows</em> it’s not simple. This isn’t a little rat-pack group of Powder Gangers here - the Legion’s claws reach deep into the Mojave, and if they had reason to, they’d burn the whole town of Novac to the ground at a moment’s notice. Somebody poking their nose into Legion business? That’s reason enough. Just because Boone’s ready to charge into a Legion camp at the drop of a hat, doesn’t mean everybody wants to tangle with them. Hell, Boone’s only fine with it because he doesn’t care if he comes out the other side. </p><p>“Hey, Boone.” Six says softly, and Boone realizes he’s been thinking too long, let the conversation drop off awkwardly.  “Do you, uh… do you want to talk about it? Losing your wife?” </p><p>Boone looks up into dark eyes. There’s a concerned crease between Six’s eyebrows, picked out in stark relief by the firelight. It looks a lot like pity. And it pisses him the hell off. </p><p>“No.” </p><p>He gets up, unpacks his sleeping bag with deft, sure movements. Six doesn’t try to say anything else as he wriggles into the sleeping bag, back to the fire. He’s still staring at the shadows falling across the crumbling cement wall when Six finishes his can of beans and leaves to piss. Two hours after he’s settled into his sleeping bag and his breath has drifted off into an easy quiet rhythm, Boone is still wide awake.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 2 warnings: mention of suicidal ideation with method</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the kind reads, kudos, and comments!</p><p>It's kind of fun to see the difference in reading levels depending on Six's gender. An interesting experiment.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their next stop is New Vegas. Of course it is. </p><p>Because they’re not talking about Carla (they’re never going to talk about Carla), Boone can’t blame Six for knowing what that means to him. What he thinks of when he thinks of going to New Vegas. Still, it puts him in a foul mood for the trip. Six doesn’t push, just shoves a tortilla with chunks of gecko meat wrapped in it into his hand and leaves him alone. </p><p>Traveling to New Vegas means a trip to Camp McCarran. Boone hasn’t been back there in years, wonders how much it’s changed. He’s heard they have a Fiend problem now. </p><p>The NCR squad is just moving out as they emerge from their building, Six blinking in the bright sun. Boone returns a friendly wave and watches them strike out into the Mojave. Today is going to be a scorcher if the heat waves rolling across the cracked ground are anything to go by. He’s not quite as prepared for this extended hike in the desert as he should be, and his arms are getting pink from too much exposure to the sun. Stupid mistake. Then again, there’s not much he could have done about it, seeing as they set out from Novac at three o’clock in the morning. </p><p>It’s nearing noon when Boone catches a glimpse of something dull, metallic and round flying through the air towards them. Faster than thought, he sweeps his rifle up, takes aim, and pulls the trigger; the resulting blast knocks Six off his feet and makes Boone stumble back several paces as pieces of grenade shrapnel pierce the air. A throwing spear whizzes through the air and thunks into the ground exactly where Six had just been standing. </p><p>Six pushes to his feet and scrambles towards a rock outcropping on the side of the highway; Boone, too far away, ducks behind an old, rust-out automobile. He waits for a lull in the storm of bullets, snaps up with his rifle, and hits the first Legionary, a recruit, with a solid headshot. The recruit goes down, spear tumbling from his hand. </p><p>Across the way, Six is taking shots with his 10MM without much success. At that distance, a pistol is only taking something down with a lucky shot. Perhaps realizing this, Six holsters the pistol and starts rooting around in his bag. Boone lets out a curse and goes back to shooting to cover them both. </p><p><em>Bang. </em>He gets a Decanus this time, leaving behind one more of each, plus a flag bearer. They’re getting close, and their shots are getting better. Boone hears something whizz by his head and flinches as he feels a sharp pain in his earlobe. He ignores it and pumps another shot into the flag-bearer’s chest. </p><p>Whatever Six is looking for, he finds it. Hunched over behind the rock outcropping, he does something with his hands, then stands full up and pitches a long, cylindrical object towards the Legionaries. The dynamite hits the ground right between the last two, bounces once, and then explodes with a deafening roar. </p><p>When Boone peeks back over the hood of the car, nobody is left standing. Cautiously, he slides out from behind his cover and approaches the bodies slowly. Six trails him and watches as he kicks each of the bodies in turn, unloading pistol shots into the heads of those that don’t look definitively dead. Once he’s certain they’re in the clear, he crouches down next to an armless corpse and starts digging through the pockets. </p><p>“Good shooting. Damn, I never expected to find Legion this far west. They’re getting bold.” Six says. He’s crouched next to another corpse, tugging a rifle out of lifeless fingers. Something dark streaks across his jaw. </p><p>Boone resists the urge to roll his eyes at the compliment, though he’s wearing his sunglasses so it wouldn’t matter either way, and shoves a handful of caps into his pocket. It is a bit strange that the Legion had chosen to come after them, but then Boone’s beret isn’t exactly subtle. He wonders if Six took that into account when inviting him along.</p><p>“You need a long-range weapon. One with more punch than a ten millimeter.” he says in response. Standing up, he gives the body of the Decanus a kick for good measure. A splash of blood covers his boot. He tries to keep his voice level, but some irritation leaks through anyway. </p><p>“I was just thinking the same thing.” Six says sheepishly. His eyes flick up to his face and widen. “Shit, Boone. Did you get hit?” </p><p>Boone frowns, realizes the side of his face feels wet, and touches the area lightly. His fingertips come back red. He prods at the area a little more roughly and winces when his earlobe pulses with pain. </p><p>A hand touches his shoulder. Boone jerks back reflexively; Six pulls his hand back and instead leans forwards to study his ear without touching. “You’ve got a chunk missing. Damn, that was a hell of a close shot. Couple millimeters to the left and you’d have been a goner.” </p><p>“I’ll take care of it.” Boone says automatically. The last thing he wants is some stranger pawing at his ear, ‘fixing it’ for him, when he can do it himself just as easily. Pulling a faded handkerchief from his pocket, Boone uses it to wipe the blood off the side of his face and from his ear and then clamps down on the wound to stop the bleeding. </p><p>Six pulls a pouch off his hip and pulls it open carefully, fishing out a twist of waxed paper. The way Boone stares at it blankly when Six tries to hand it over gets a wry smile out of him. </p><p>“It’s healing powder, Boone. Never used it before?” he asks, a trace of humor in his voice. Boone finally accepts it, untwists the waxed paper to look at the gritty powder inside. </p><p>“This is what the Legion uses.” he says flatly, looking up at Six. Six rolls his eyes in response. </p><p>“It’s what everyone around here uses when they don’t have the New California Republic funding them. I made it myself, it’s just dried plants and roots. Mix it up with some water and rub it on your earlobe. It’ll stop the bleeding and speed up the healing process. Unless you want to get an infection from your new pierced ear and die from it.” </p><p>Boone declines to respond to that and uncaps his canteen to dribble a few drops of water on the powder. When he rubs the paste on his earlobe, it sends a tingling, cooling sensation through the wound that cancels out the stinging. Boone accepts the bandage Six holds out and wraps it carefully around his ear. The bleeding has already stopped. </p><p>“A fashion statement if I’ve ever seen one.” Six says teasingly. “Looking a little bit lopsided, though. We can skip the Legion attack and do the other side with a needle instead.” </p><p>Boone recognizes that it’s a joke. He lets out a huff, the closest he’s going to get to laughing, and grunts out a thanks for the powder and the bandage. Six accepts the lukewarm gratitude with good humor and they turn back to their journey. </p><p>They reach Camp McCarran in the late afternoon. Since the train on McCarran is one of the only ways to reach New Vegas safely, travelers like them are allowed onto the camp as long as they don’t cause any trouble. The sentries at the guard check their weapons brusquely and then wave them through the gate and into the front portion of the camp.</p><p>Compared to the dinky little areas of settlement they’ve been passing through since meeting in Novac, the sheer size of McCarran is almost breathtaking. Rows of tents march neatly down the central open area of the base. To the left, Boone can hear the distant sounds of gunfire from the shooting range. To the right he hears the grunts of soldiers doing physical training and a sergeant shouting commands to his soldiers during drill practice. Everything is exactly in its place and squared away. Something tense in Boone’s shoulders loosens and melts away; he knows exactly what this place is and what it expects from him, and he knows he can meet those expectations. There’s no uncertainty here.</p><p>There’s purpose, too. Having spent the last few years letting his world view shrink to the straight line between a dirty hotel room and Dinky the Dinosaur, Boone forgot how much purpose means to him.</p><p>“Is that Sergeant Boone I see?” sounds a familiar voice off to his right. Boone glances over; the man that strides to them and offers his hand looks exactly the same as he had years ago, from the neatly-clipped beard on his chin right down to the polished boots on his feet. Boone accepts the handshake from Major Dhatri with a brief smile.</p><p>“I have to admit, I didn’t expect to see you here again. It’s been a long damn time. You’re not here to join back up with First Recon, are you?” Dhatri asks. Boone feels how his body responds by straightening, his left foot inching out to a standard twelve inches from the right as his hands clasp behind his back. He may not be NCR anymore, but old habits die hard. It would feel wrong to talk to Dhatri without showing him the full respect that he deserves. </p><p>“It’s good to see you, sir. Congratulations on your promotion. Unfortunately, I’m just passing through.” </p><p>Dhatri looks a little disappointed, as if he’d actually been hoping that Boone was coming back to the NCR. The pang in Boone’s chest, thinking about the prospect, is not new. </p><p>“Well, that’s too bad, son.” Dhatri replies with a frown. “It was a real shame to lose you and Vargas. Are you in any hurry? There’s nobody left from your time in First Recon, but the new guys would be interested to talk to an old hat like you.” </p><p>Boone frowns, opens his mouth to answer (even though he’s not sure what he’s going to say) and is cut off by Six. </p><p>“No hurry at all. We’d be interested in paying to stay the night, actually, if that’s an option.” </p><p>The major turns to Six and extends his hand, which Six takes with a polite smile. </p><p>“I think we can rustle up a couple extra bunks for the two of you. And who might this be?” </p><p>Boone doesn’t miss the look the major sends him, but he does ignore it steadfastly and let Six do his own introduction. </p><p>Dhatri invites them to eat dinner together with the new squad. The chow is better than it was in his time at Camp McCarran. Though the new first reconners are all strangers to them, there’s still a familiar sense of kinship there. He knows the way they move around each other with practiced familiarity, how they take it as a matter of course that they’ll sit together rather than scatter to their own social circles. First recon goes through so much together that it’s less like a unit and more like a family; he’s glad that hasn’t changed since he’s been gone. </p><p>He gets the newest of the group, Ten of Spades, on one side, and the grizzled Corporal Sterling on the other. Ten of Spades spits out questions like machine-gun fire and doesn’t stop to let him answer them. Corporal Sterling sticks out a mangled hand with no reservations and immediately turns to discussing rifles. Boone eyes the pristine condition of the corporal’s lever-action rifle, compares it to the duck-taped, tied-together piece of trash that he totes around, and grimaces inwardly. It’s embarrassing to have let his weapon fall into such a condition. </p><p>Six is down the table from him, having a one-sided conversation with a quiet, frowning Sergeant that looks vaguely familiar. After a few minutes of study, Boone finally recognizes him. The last time he’d seen the man, Bitter-Root had been covered in blood, pumping shots into the body of a Great Khan at Bitter Springs. Boone heard at some point that Dhatri had adopted a Khan, but he hadn’t thought much about it. Six’s other side is occupied by a female corporal with a buzzcut. </p><p>He takes another bite of his stew, wonders how he managed to get here. Seems like he shouldn’t get a chance to experience all this again. On one hand, he can’t help but enjoy the sense of normalcy. Feels like his past never happened, somewhat. On the other hand, the moment doesn’t fit quite right anymore. He was a different person when he was with the NCR - younger, dumber, with less to lose and more sense of worth. He doesn’t belong here anymore, no matter what Dhatri thinks, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve the comfort of it. </p><p>“So, where are you two headed? The Strip?” Sterling asks as he spoons up the last of the stew in his bowl. Boone, mouth full, lets out an affirmatory sound and swallows. </p><p>“Some errand of his. Don’t know much about it.” </p><p>Sterling huffs a laugh, sets the bowl down in front of him on the picnic table. “Well, you don’t look like the type that needs a talk about the Strip. These youngsters in the NCR these days, they walk in there thinking they’ll come out rich as kings - and then come back out with nothing but the clothes on their back and a week-long hole in their memory.” </p><p>Sterling shoots a look at Ten of Spades, who has the decency to look sheepish instead of protesting. </p><p>“I’m not much of a gambler. Rather be here manning post, if I’m honest.” Boone admits. It’s not a lie - the idea of going back to New Vegas makes something clench tight in his gut. He hadn’t been back since Carla. He can’t see the city’s lights without seeing the way they reflect on her hair, off the sequins on her dress, off the light in her smile. He’ll make it through, but he doesn’t have to like it. </p><p>Sterling claps him on the back and moves to get up. “Well, you change your mind about coming back to the NCR, I’m sure the LT can find some room. We’ve all heard a story and a half about Sergeant Boone, back in his day.” </p><p>The man tips his hat and ambles off. Ten of Spades has ducked outside for a smoke; the female corporal disappears as well, leaving Six and Bitter-Root at the table, deep in conversation. Looked like Six had finally cracked that hard exterior and caught Bitter-Root’s interest somehow. Boone has no interest in playing a third wheel, so he strides out of the tent. </p><p>Activity never really stops at McCarran, but it does wind down a bit through the night, when most of the soldiers are off-duty. The drilling areas and the shooting ranges are empty now; laughing voices and the shuffling of card decks fill the air instead. The glow of campfires dots the landscape, lighting up faces and the occasional movements of the soldiers patrolling the perimeter. </p><p>Boone blinks; for a moment he’s nineteen years old again, back from a field exercise and dead on his feet as he weaves through the tents to his bunk. The air then had held just the same degree of chill, the clouds had passed over the moon just so. He feels the ghost of a pack on his back and the twinge of a lightly twisted ankle he’d gotten from their hump back to camp. </p><p>If he stands here, just like this, will he stay in this moment forever? </p><p>A burst of shouting from the nearby campfire makes him jump in surprise, and the moment is broken.</p><p>He heads back to the tent they’ve been given for the night, ducks in to find his pack, and emerges again with a pack of smokes. The tent has eight racks in all in it, but only he and Six are bunking down here. Left over from a platoon that just transferred, the LT had said. Theirs for however long they needed. Boone leans against the side of the tent, where the framing holds up the entryway, and lights his cigarette. </p><p>He’s down to the filter when the crunch of gravel alerts him to someone approaching. He feels, for the first time in a long time, comfortable enough to stay where he is. He doesn’t even have his rifle slung across his back. It’s a weird feeling. </p><p>Six appears around the corner of the tent. He sees Boone standing there, puffing out a breath of smoke, and smiles, somewhat sheepishly. The unusual look makes Boone raise an eyebrow at him. </p><p>“Hey, uh…” Six says in greeting, uncharacteristically mumble-mouthed. “I’m going to be… gone. For a while. Maybe all night. But I’ll be back by morning.” </p><p>Six stands there, clearly expecting a response.  Boone takes the cigarette from his mouth, drops it on the ground to grind out with his boot, and says, “Huh.” </p><p>Apparently that’s enough. Six turns and disappears into the gloom. Boone sticks another cigarette into his mouth, lights it, and inhales deeply.</p><p>He hadn’t picked up that that was what Six was angling for, deep in conversation with Bitter Root. Didn’t think someone as quiet and standoffish as Bitter Root would be receptive either. But Boone should know better than to think someone could turn down Six’s charm. </p><p>Boone himself has never been good with all of that. Relationships, flirting, attraction, that kind of stuff. There’d been a couple girls when he was younger. The only one that had really meant anything was Carla, and she had been the one to instigate their relationship; he’d just gone along with it, dumbfounded at his own good luck. </p><p>He guesses he can see it. Guesses that Bitter-Root is alright looking, even if he’s surly and withdrawn (and it takes a lot for Boone to say that about someone else). He doesn’t really understand the whole one-night stand thing, though. It runs through every social interaction that Boone hates - flirting, which is uncomfortable for him to watch and downright nauseating to think of doing - then the proposition, and Boone’s not very good at being forward unless it involves informing a Legionary of their own impending death - and finally the sex, which just doesn’t mean much to him if he doesn’t know the person. Not to say he can’t cross the finish line, so to speak, but after all the effort put into getting there, it’s a bit of a letdown. Maybe he wouldn’t feel that way if he had a silver tongue like Six does. Boone could be bunked up in somebody’s rack right now too, if he could talk like that. </p><p>The thought is one hundred percent unappealing. Boone would rather be in his own bunk staring at the ceiling than in bed with a stranger. Something wrong with him, he guesses. Wrong cylinders firing in his brain or something. He stubs out the cigarette and steps into the tent. </p><p>The tents are rigged up for electricity via generators that he can hear rumbling in the distance, so he’s not left in the dark when the tent flap closes. He takes the time to strip his rifle and scrub all the carbon and grit out from between the parts. When he puts it back together an hour later, the duct tape, string, and bent buttstock cover make him frown. Disgraceful. He should be embarrassed to walk into McCarran with a weapon looking like that. It’s a sign of how much he stopped caring in Novac, that he could let this happen. He resolves to find some spare parts in the near future and get it back to rights. How he’s going to pay with his pockets empty of caps, he doesn’t know. </p><p>There’s nothing left to do. Boone climbs into the bottom rack, tugs his sleeping bag up around his shoulders, and counts the bars on the underside of the bunk over and over until his eyelids droop. </p><p>He’s back at Cottonwood Cove, sighting down his scope. The curve of Carla’s neck appears. He slips his sight up past the ugly collar around her throat to that silver and turquoise clip that still holds her mass of dark hair. He can see, if he tilts just to the right, that she’s crying. He takes aim, draws his finger back slowly, and takes the shot. But this time, the butt stock of his rifle, bent out of shape from wear and tear, slips from the pocket of his shoulder when the recoil hits. The rifle lurches and sends the shot spinning out into the dust. By the time he manages to get the rifle back up, the Legion has already swarmed the area and jerked the slaves to their feet. He catches a glimpse of Carla clutching her swollen belly. Then she’s gone. </p><p>Boone jerks out of sleep so hard he nearly brains himself on the bunk above. His heart is hammering at a thousand miles an hour; it feels like it’s going to burst from his chest. He lets out a long, involved curse and cradles his head in his hands, trying to get his heart and his breathing under control. </p><p>It’s not until after several moments that he realizes he’s not alone in the tent. Flicking his eyes up, he sees a shadowy figure standing just inside the flap of the tent and scrambles for his rifle. It’s not until the figure moves forward and he has his rifle up and sighted in that he sees who it is. </p><p>“Goddamn it.” he says tiredly, lowering the rifle. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” </p><p>Six sets a flask down on the table and turns to him, holding his hands up apologetically. His hair is loose from its characteristic braid, and the buttons on the front of his shirt are done up wrong.  </p><p>“Sorry. Just wondering if I should wake you. That was a hell of a dream.” Six tries unsuccessfully to make his way to his gear, bumps his shin into the edge of a bed in the process. “Damn, it’s dark in here. How the hell did you even see me? What are you, an owl?” </p><p>Boone ignores that. “I thought you were going to be gone all night.” </p><p>He can just make out the way Six’s lip curls at the edge as the man rifles through his pack and pulls out his pajamas. “Bitter-Root wasn’t looking for somebody to, uh… stay the night. He’s a casual kind of guy, I guess.” </p><p>Boone frowns. “Wouldn’t have pegged him for even that, to be honest.” </p><p>Six disappears around the corner of another set of bunks to pull on his pajamas. The tent is silent for a long moment except for the rustling of clothes. </p><p>“Boone, are you, uh… you bothered by it? Me and Bitter-Root?” </p><p>Bothered? Had he done something to give Six that idea? “Can’t say I get the appeal of a one-night stand, but it’s your life. Not any of my business.” </p><p>“I didn’t mean that.” Six reappears. He’s harder to see now in the dark blue top and bottoms. “I meant because he’s a guy. That bother you?” </p><p>“Oh.” Boone hadn’t really thought about that. “I hadn’t really thought about that.”</p><p>Six huffs lightly, but Boone can see how his movements have gotten a little bit jerkier. He steps on the frame of Boone’s bed and vaults himself into the top bunk. The tension gets a little lighter as they lose sight of each other. </p><p>Six says, “I’m not gonna jump you in the middle of the night or anything. People think we’re some kind of monsters or something, running around sticking our hands down people’s pants.” </p><p>Boone rolls onto his back and stretches his arms out overhead, crosses them so he can rest his head on them. “Seems like if they’re that interested in your business, it says more about them than you.”</p><p>It’s not like he doesn’t know what it’s like for people that are inclined that way. If they don’t keep it to themselves, they get beat in back alleys, sometimes killed. Boone thinks if he was attracted to men, he just wouldn’t do anything about it. </p><p>But what if Carla had been a man? Would he have let her walk on by?</p><p>The thought exercise doesn’t mean much, because Carla wasn’t a man, and that’s just the way Boone had liked her. He can’t picture her, can’t rustle up that tight feeling in his chest, without thinking of the smallness of her waist, the gentle curve of her lips, the press of her soft breasts against him. </p><p>So it’s not the same. But still. </p><p>He doesn't want Six walking on eggshells around him, thinking he's some kind of bigot. Boone's got his issues, but that's not one of them.</p><p>“It doesn’t bother me.” he says softly. </p><p>Silence. A slight rustling from above. Boone exhales, closes his eyes. They don’t say anything else that night. </p><p>--</p><p>Six asks him the next morning if he’s interested in taking a side job to make a few caps. Boone thinks about his rifle, about his nightmare, says yes. </p><p>They make their way across the ruins of Old Vegas, deep into Fiend territory. When they find the spot, Boone takes them to the shell of a ruined building almost a klick away and climbs to the top as Six sets up defenses below. </p><p>He lays there for three hours. He misses having a spotter around to help with the eye strain. A full two and half hours after he sets up, the target finally appears - and then refuses to set himself up for a good shot for another 30 minutes. Since he’s heavily armored, it matters more that Boone catches him at the right angle than it does for his less protected friends. Finally, the chance comes. </p><p>Squeeze. <em>Bang. </em>Squeeze. <em>Bang. </em>Squeeze. <em>Bang. </em>Pause. </p><p>Squeeze. <em>Bang. </em></p><p>No more Fiends in the area. Of that building, anyway. Boone does another sweep, just to be safe, and then hears a thump down below. </p><p>The thump is the body of a Fiend laying on the ground, gurgling through a newly-made hole in her throat. Six kneels to wipe his knife off and slips it back into the sheath. </p><p>“Were those shots by chance our target dropping dead?” he asks. A pleased smile breaks out at Boone’s silent nod. </p><p>They bring the head back, Six taking the responsibility of carrying it by the dirty, discoloured mohawk on top. It smells like a rotting body shoved into an outhouse. Boone is not in the habit of decapitating people, finds the whole process vaguely nauseating even if it’s a better alternative to carrying the whole body back. Watching Six try to keep the neck stump from dripping all over him makes the caps seem not worth the process. </p><p>When they get to McCarran, though, and he learns why Betsy spits on the head with such a hateful grimace, he changes his mind.  Six presents Cook-Cook’s head to Dhatri with a proud flourish and drops half the bounty into Boone’s hand.</p><p>When Boone pulls the trigger that night in his dream, it’s a Fiend on the other end. The buttstock of his rifle, hammered flush to the stock and gleaming from care, doesn't slip even a millimeter.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 3 warnings: slight discussion of homosexuality and homophobia. Boone has a flashback to when he killed Carla. Boone also says some mean things to himself about the way he experiences attraction. Asexuality is valid. There is nothing with him, and if you're on the ace spectrum, dear reader, there's nothing wrong with you either.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They go to New Vegas. </p><p>Stepping out onto the Strip is a lot harder than he thought it would be. The last time he’d been here was with Carla, and he’d had eyes then only for her. He’s forgotten what a different world New Vegas is. </p><p>The same sun that lights up the Mojave glistens more suggestively in this place. Casino lights reflect off tie bars, oiled hair, glittering jewelry. To his left, a showgirl from Gomorrah makes a ‘come hither’ gesture at him. Undulating her taut, glistening stomach like a sidewinder, she leers at him as he stares, transfixed. When he finally pulls his gaze away, he’s grateful to see that Six is looking in the opposite direction. Boone wonders if he knows what a bumbling yokel he brought with him. It’s all he can do to keep from picking at the sleeve of his faded t-shirt; his no-nonsense attire feels shabby juxtaposed with the peacocks strutting around them. </p><p>They get a room at the Vault 21 hotel, which is better than staying at any of the casinos. Most of the Vault 21 clientele are off-duty NCR and regular folks visiting on a budget, so they aren’t quite as glitz and glam as the rest of the New Vegas population.  A few of them are professional gamblers; Boone sees them parked at the tables in the dining area, dealing out hand after hand of Blackjack and muttering to themselves. </p><p>Six rolls into their shared room, drops his pack, and starts digging through it immediately, pulling out a dark bundle and a pair of polished leather shoes. Boone watches him disappear into the bathroom from where he sits on the bed, unlacing his boots. </p><p>As uncomfortable he feels in Vegas, it does feel nice to relax a bit after several days on the road. Unwind. Maybe they can hit the diner a little later, grab a beer. If Six wants to go out gambling, Boone is happy to stay here by himself and take a breather. </p><p>It’s a while before Six comes out of the bathroom, and when he does - </p><p>Boone blinks. </p><p>Gone are the practical linen button-down and heavy boots. Six has replaced them with a smart pinstriped suit that looks practically bespoke by the way it hugs his broad shoulders and trim waist. When he tilts his head to clasp a wrist watch on, Boone sees that his hair has been freed of its usual braid and is instead twisted up into a complicated bun, bringing attention to his elegant high cheekbones and dark eyes. He doesn’t even look like the same person Boone had walked in with. </p><p>Six looks up and catches Boone’s gaze. “Do I have something on my face?” he asks, not without amusement. Boone looks away quickly and starts fiddling with something on the side of his pack, embarrassed to have been caught. </p><p>He’d figured Six for a looker, but hadn’t really thought much about it. Not like Six was trying to play it up under that leather chestplate and coated with dust from the road. But the outfit adds something more than attractiveness. It makes him look like he <em>belongs </em>here. Dressed like that, he could be any of the young moneybags Boone’s seen at the craps table with a drink in one hand and a pretty dame in the other. He doesn’t look like someone that should be slumming around with an NCR dropout. </p><p>“You interested in going out? Would be nice to have some company that can hit a mark at a mile away.” Six says into the mirror as he smoothes out the front of the suit. From the back, Boone can see that the hair at the nape of Six’s neck has been braided elegantly up into the bun. Looks like something Carla might have done for a night out. She was forever calling Boone into the bathroom to help her pin something up or twist something some way. Seemed tedious, but with Carla the end result had always been worth it. </p><p>“No. ...not my scene.” he says tersely. Six catches his eye in the mirror, looks disappointed, but doesn’t push. He just turns his attention to buttoning his sleeves and says no more. Boone pushes himself up from the bed and disappears into the bathroom to wash his face. </p><p>He takes his sunglasses and his beret off and turns the faucet on. The water feels good against his overheated skin. Too much sun exposure. </p><p>“Boone? I’m leaving… I’ll be back later.” Six calls through the door. Boone grunts back a response, listens for the slam of the door. Sighs in relief when it finally comes. Being alone sounds like the best plan of action right now. </p><p>What the hell’s he doing here, holed up in New Vegas with this man? Boone couldn’t fill a page with the things he knows about Six. It suddenly seems foolish to have trusted him so much, to have agreed to this hair-brained trek across the Mojave just because Six asked him to.  Hell, he knows <em>Cliff Briscoe </em>better than he knows Six, and Boone can count on one hand how many times he’s said so much as a word to Cliff Briscoe. </p><p>He still feels overheated, and is slightly confused to note that the front of his pants has gone a little tight. He hasn’t felt a real urge for sex since...well. He hasn’t felt it in a long time. He thinks it was the hair, bringing up memories of Carla. Sometimes Carla had called him into the bathroom to help put it up...and sometimes she’d called him in for other things. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. </p><p>Standing there at the sink, Boone unzips his pants, pushes down the front of his underwear. Spitting in his hand, he wraps it around his half-erection and gives it a few experimental tugs. </p><p>He tries, as always, to keep his mind blank, or imagine a stranger under him, a mishmash of the women he’s met over the years, but it never works. With a guilty wince, he remembers burying his hand into that hair, pulling it gently from the bobby pins and letting it cascade down Carla’s back, and the flesh in his hand stiffens immediately. </p><p>He finishes into the palm of his hand, grimaces, and cleans himself off in the sink. Not really that much more fulfilling than his pragmatic sessions in his Novac hotel room. The stress release feels nice, but that's it. And he always feels ashamed of himself after he thinks about Carla like that. It sullies her memory for her to just be a randy image to him. </p><p>Tucking himself back into his pants, Boone stumbles out of the bathroom and sets to work stripping down his rifle, so he can install the new parts he’s bought. </p><p>--</p><p>Six comes back early in the morning, so long after they’d arrived that Boone had stopped worrying about sharing the one bed and just fallen asleep. He comes awake all at once at the sound of the door slipping open. Six is half-dressed, pinstriped jacket draped over his shoulder and a dark mark like a bruise on the side of his neck. </p><p>Boone checks his watch. 0325. He passes a hand over his bleary eyes and sighs. </p><p>“Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.” Six says apologetically. Boone waves him off, slips his faded t-shirt over his head. Six looks tired and not particularly happy about...wherever he’s been. </p><p>“I got us a better place.” he says as he sits down, heavily, on the other end of the mattress. His hands go up to tug at the untied tie around his neck with a total lack of enthusiasm. “You mind moving?” </p><p>Boone shrugs. If he’d asked where they were going, he might have done differently. </p><p>When Six turns them onto the steps of the casino, Boone stops in place and gives Six an incredulous look. Even for someone who doesn’t give a shit about the Strip, he knows about this place. </p><p>“You can’t be serious.” he says disbelievingly. Six shrugs and gives him an exhausted look, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’ </p><p>They walk into the Lucky 38. Nobody stops them, not even the Securitrons that flank the inside of the entrance, but he thinks he hears a couple of surprised shouts from the crowd milling about outside just before the door shuts behind them. </p><p>The Strip is as bright and boisterious at 5 AM as ever, and yet the inside of the Lucky 38 is dead silent. Lights flick on a moment after the doors close, illuminating an empty gambling floor. They must be the first people to have seen the inside of this place in years. He stops and runs his hand over a tabletop. Polished to a shine, but only to keep the dust off, not because anyone had been using it recently. Casinos aren’t meant to be this quiet. It sends a shiver up his spine. </p><p>Boone follows Six silently to the elevator and up to the High Roller Suite, listening to the securitron manning the controls’ attempts to make awkward, cheery conversation in a twangy accent. Six at least manages a sincere ‘thank you’ to the robot before following Boone off the elevator. </p><p>Boone’s been thinking hard since Six had woken him up this morning, about Six, about the gossip in Novac over the month before he’d left, about why they’re here in New Vegas. He looks at Six, really <em>looks </em>for once<em>, </em>and notices a thin, round scar just at the edge of his temple, almost invisible if you weren’t looking for it. </p><p>“I think we need to talk.” he says, before Six can disappear into his suite. The edge of Six’s lip quirks up into a humourless smile. He nods, and gestures Boone in. </p><p>“You’re that courier that came back from the dead.” Boone says without ceremony, before either of them have even sat down. Six turns his back to Boone and busies himself dumping his pack in the corner. It takes far longer than it has any right to. </p><p>“....yeah. That’s me.” he says finally, giving up on looking busy to slump down on the edge of the bed. Boone stays standing, arms crossed over his chest. “Benny? The guy I’m looking for? He found me in Goodsprings, him and the Khans that were holed up in Boulder City. He took my package, shot me in the head, and threw me into an unmarked grave.” </p><p><em>Christ. </em>Talk about a rough day at work. No wonder they’re still alive after their trek across the desert - traveling with somebody with luck like that, it couldn’t have been any other way. A hungry gecko’s not going to be what gets Six, that’s for sure.</p><p>“So how’d you survive?” he probes cautiously. Six’s fingertips slide to the scar on his temple, rubbing against the shiny skin unconsciously.</p><p>“That robot in the elevator, Victor? He saved me. Mr. House was using him to track the package across the Mojave and make sure it got to New Vegas. Victor pulled me out of the grave after I got shot, saw I was still alive, and got me to a doctor. I woke up in Goodsprings. And let me tell you, I had a hell of a headache.” </p><p>The joke makes Boone huff, just a little. He appreciates that Six can have even the slightest sense of humour about this situation. The silence falls in the room again for a few moments. </p><p>“So what are we doing here?” he asks, finally giving in and sinking into an ornate armchair so he doesn’t have to stand any longer. Six shrugs, picking at the cuff of his collared shirt. </p><p>“House called me here and told me to get the chip for him. I tried...and I failed. Benny was gone, chip with him, when I woke up.” </p><p><em>When I woke up. </em>Boone doesn’t have to think too hard about what that means. No wonder Six had dressed up so much. He doesn’t really get it, how Six can jump into things like that. He doesn’t mean it in a demeaning way or anything, it just sounds like an….uncomfortable situation. Doesn’t look like it did Six any good, either. Not judging by the bags under his eyes, or the way the edge of his mouth is tugged uncharacteristically into a frown. It would take some gumption to jump into bed with a man that shot you in the head. </p><p>“Are we going after him?” he asks. Six’s fingers dart to the scar again, his whole body a tense line. </p><p>“I think…” he starts, but the sentence sputters out. It’s a long moment before he starts again. “Think I need to take a break before that happens. A week or so. Just to recharge.” </p><p>Boone shrugs, stands. “Fine by me.” </p><p>He feels Six’s eyes on his back as he walks out of the room. He thinks about saying something to make Six feel better, but he can’t think of anything, so he shuts the door behind himself carefully and goes back to bed. </p><p>--</p><p>They stay a few days in New Vegas. Boone sleeps like shit. He spends most of his time playing pool in one of the back rooms and drinking from the strangely well-preserved stock of liquor at the bar. Doesn’t seem like anyone is going to miss it. </p><p>Six is a specter. Sometimes he’s gone when Boone gets up in the morning. Sometimes he stumbles out at four in the afternoon looking sleep-deprived and miserable. Boone thinks about saying something to him, but it doesn’t feel like his place to pry. Instead, after the third day of it, Boone suggests they go back to McCarran, and Six agrees. They spend most of the trek back in silence. When they walk back onto the base and Six claps him tiredly on the shoulder, Boone figures it was the right call.</p><p>Their ‘break’ comes in the form of errands for the NCR. Picking up supplies, fixing things, busting a rogue supply sergeant. Feels good to be back in rig, accomplishing something. The tent they’d shared before gets unofficially assigned to them for their use while there.  Boone has no complaints about that either - he finds that when Six is in the bunk above him, breathing in a slow rhythm, he’s able to drift off and get some decent rest. It’s usually only when Six stays out overnight with someone that Boone finds himself waking up in a cold sweat. Boone thinks a couple of times, in those lonely moments, about asking for a spare rack in the 1st Recon tent, but it feels cowardly. He should be able to deal with his own problems. </p><p>Six ingratiates himself into 1st Recon surprisingly easily, spending evenings talking with Sterling or playing cards with the LT and Ten of Spades. He and Bitter Root don’t talk, so Boone doesn’t know if it’s him or someone else that Six occasionally visits. Boone doesn’t ask. Boone spends plenty of time with 1st Recon too, is surprised to find Corporal Betsy joining him now and then for a smoke. He and Sterling have a couple of friendly shooting competitions, interspersed with rounds of funny Ranger stories and mock arguments about the merits of bolt- vs. lever-action rifles.  </p><p>They take out two more fiends for Dhatri; the resulting bounty puts money in their pockets and has Dhatri slapping Boone on the shoulder anytime they meet, dropping increasingly blunt hints about coming back to the NCR. The urge gets stronger every time he’s asked. </p><p>On the fifth day, Six putters around in the tent in the morning and finally turns to him, looking as if he’s got something on his mind. Boone, in the middle of rolling a cigarette, licks the edge of the paper and assembles it carefully as he waits for Six to start talking. </p><p>“I’ve been thinking about what you said when we took down those legionaries. About getting a long-range weapon. But, uh… I don’t know much about that. Would you be willing to teach me?” he asks, rubbing at the back of his neck. Boone sticks the cigarette into his mouth and thinks it over. </p><p>“You’re asking for sniper lessons?” he clarifies. A nod. “...yeah. Sure. After breakfast.” </p><p>The NCR has set up a platform along the west side of the wall for target practice. In the distance, dummies have been set up with large black circles painted on their chests for targets. Boone thinks about checking out a rifle from the armory for Six - and then slings his own over his back instead and heads for the stairs. Six follows. </p><p>The range is a beautiful thing. Gun proficiency and safety is taken very seriously in the NCR, so on the range soldiers move like a well-oiled machine.  Boone remembers the first time he’d seen it, was just as impressed as Six seems to be now. One of the reasons he was sold on the NCR, really. He crosses behind the row of soldiers sighting in on their targets, careful not to get in their space or knock over their things, and finds an empty spot down at the very end. </p><p>Six stands back and lets him set up. Boone stacks a couple sandbags to rest the barrel on, lays out ammo to one side, and gestures Six over. </p><p>“You know anything about shooting a rifle?” he asks. Six shakes his head, looking sheepish. </p><p>“No, believe it or not. Missed that lesson growing up, I guess.” </p><p>He looks as if he expects teasing. A lesser man would do so; Boone just lays his rifle down carefully and drops into the prone, pulling the rifle to his shoulder and resting the barrel on the sandbags. </p><p>“Look at everything I’m doing.” he says. He’s never been a great teacher. He’d been taught all the basics just like any NCR recruit, but shooting comes pretty natural to him; makes it hard to think about all the details, the stuff he does unconsciously. “It’s all about support. Your body is just like a cradle for the rifle. Throw your legs out wide, get good contact between your elbow and the ground surface. Buttstock goes into the pocket of your shoulder. Then breathe out, and take the shot.” </p><p>He demonstrates, splaying his legs out comically wide. A wiggle of the hips to get them into the right position and press his stomach into the ground. He sights in, finds himself off target, and moves his whole body slightly to the right. The big black circle comes into focus. On a sunny, windless day like this, making calculations isn’t hard at all. Boone breathes in, breathes out, and in that natural space between breaths, he draws back on the trigger. </p><p>When he gets up after a few shots, Six takes his spot, trying awkwardly to recreate what he’d done. Most beginners think it’s easier than it really is in practice. As much as it comes natural to him, it’s not a natural thing, shooting a gun. When Six is finally settled into an approximation of the position and glances up at Boone for direction, Boone kicks his legs out wider and then kneels down next to him to see his setup. </p><p>“Shift backwards some so your forward arm isn’t so close to your body. Yeah, like that. Now, hand should be propping here - don’t muscle the rifle into position like that. You’ll just get tired. Relax, see where your sights are, and then adjust your entire body so you’re on target. Yeah. You got it?” </p><p>Six makes a frustrated noise and shakes his head. “Doesn’t feel right. And I don’t think my eye is in the right position - the scope is lining up weird.” </p><p>Boone is so in his element that he doesn’t even think when he stretches over him to check his positioning. The sudden stiffness of the body under him makes him realize what he’s doing; Boone jerks backwards so he’s out of Six’s space and kicks himself for being so careless. Plenty of soldiers come in with reason to like their personal space. Boone had gotten into the habit of telling them before he moved in close, let them know that he was going to touch them or hover over them, so they had a chance to prepare. Guess a man forgets those things, after a while. </p><p>“Sorry. Should have warned you. I’m gonna lean over, see what the problem is. That okay?” </p><p>The tension has drained out of Six shoulders as fast as it came on; he lets out a mumbled ‘yeah, sure’, and wiggles back into position. Boone slowly leans forward again and scrutinizes him; Six doesn’t freeze up this time. </p><p>“You need to push your cheek more firmly into the rifle. Gonna move your head.” he warns. Boone’s tried just explaining it, but he hadn’t gotten it himself until his instructor showed him how to do it properly. Carefully, he reaches around on the left, wraps his hand around Six’s jaw, and moves his face so that his cheek is as smashed into the rifle as it’ll go.  “Should be able to see down the scope better now. Yeah?” a nod. “Better for recoil too. That much contact, you won’t be knocked out of position when you take a shot. You on target?” Another nod. </p><p>Boone pushes to his feet, steps out from over him. “Take a couple shots. Slow and easy, don’t jerk the trigger.” </p><p>Boone pulls up the binos he’d borrowed from Sterling and watches as Six fires a few rounds. A decent grouping, fairly close together. They all hit the dirt several feet short and just to the right of the target. Boone kneels and adjusts the sight on his rifle. </p><p>“Good. Would’ve clipped it if we’d zeroed the rifle before coming out here. Gotta teach you how to adjust for wind too. I’ll explain that.” </p><p>They spend a good two hours in practice. By the end of it, Six is proficient in the prone and familiar with the kneeling and sitting. When they finally pack up and head back to base, he hands the rifle back with a pleased flush of colour in his cheeks and a big grin. It’s a nice change from the moping he’d been doing recently. </p><p>“No wonder you joined 1st Recon. Hitting your target from that distance is a hell of a rush.” </p><p>Boone’s feeling good himself. He likes seeing other people enjoy shooting. He’d signed up for 1st Recon for the pay mostly, but also because it meant doing more of something he loves. Hell, he remembers helping his rack mate from boot camp out on the range, back when Yamamoto had -</p><p>“What kind of missions did you go on with 1st Recon?” Six asks. Boone barely hears the question.</p><p>Boone hasn’t thought about Yamamoto in years. The last time he’d seen Yamamoto, he’d been–</p><p>He’d been –</p><p>“Boone?”</p><p>He’d been caught by the Legion two months after they’d come to the Mojave. The Legion strung him up on a cross. Boone had watched a dribble of blood snake down his chin from his cracked, bleeding lips, seen the way his red skin blistered in the pitiless sun. </p><p>The memories follow in quick succession. Boone remembers bringing the gun up, seeing Yamamoto’s face through the scope. Yamamoto turns into a young mother in a Khan dress, stumbling over her feet as she tries to flee from Bitter Springs. Then suddenly she’s Carla, a mass of dark hair with a silver clip in it and a hand on her swollen belly. <em>Bang. Bang. Bang. </em>His chest gets tight, his skin cold even though the sun is blazing down on them. He hates how easily the memories come back. They sit just below the surface, ready to boil up at the slightest provocation. </p><p>The first mercy killing was the worst of them. Not just because it was the first. Because it was a young soldier he’d seen at the chow hall the week before laughing and joking with his squad mates. Boone’s squad leader had given the order to take them out. He’d sighted in on that soldier’s face, close enough to see the pain and suffering in his eyes, and took the shot. </p><p> Backup had arrived an hour after. They’d stormed the Legion camp with no issues, no casualties. </p><p>He could have waited. But he followed orders. </p><p>Sometimes he wants to talk about it, <em>needs </em>to talk about it, but he doesn’t think he has the words to do it the right way. Even if he did, most people wouldn’t understand. Certainly not a civilian. You don’t just <em>refuse </em>orders. And yet… and yet he was his own man too. Surely he owed it to those men to delay the shot just an hour. To at least have asked. </p><p>He doesn’t know whether Six would give him pity or condemnation if he talked about it. He doesn’t deserve either. What he deserves is a bullet to the skull, but maybe he’s just too much of a coward to ask for it. </p><p>“Boone.”</p><p>Carla had asked, a few times, and he’d never told her. On some level, Boone thinks she understood that she didn’t want to know. Things were better that way. Boone could forget, sometimes, or at least pretend that he did. Carla was willing to forget too, and he’ll always remember how precious a gift that was. </p><p>“<em>Boone.” </em></p><p>Six bumps his elbow, which snaps him back into the present moment. He can’t remember what Six had asked him. It doesn’t matter. They’re back at their tent. Boone turns his back on Six and pulls out a cigarette. After a moment, Six gets the hint and walks away.</p><p>--</p><p>Six starts acting weird after that. Every time they’re in the same vicinity, he gets a look on his face like he’s struggling with something. A few times, he looks up at Boone like he has something to say, but never actually starts any conversation. Boone asks a few times what their plan is, once they get going after whatever it is Six is looking for, but Six won’t even tell him which direction they’re headed. </p><p>Boone hasn’t gotten this far in life without a healthy dose of suspicion. The third time he asks and Six deflects the question, he starts thinking maybe Six is doing it because he knows Boone won’t like the answer. </p><p>--</p><p>Betsy joins him one night when he’s eating chow alone by one of the campfires. She looks like she’s come from the showers, her short hair spackled with droplets of water and her hygiene bag rolled up inside her towel. Seating herself in the dirt heavily with her back propped up against a log, she throws the bundle down beside her and lights a cigarette. </p><p>“Where’s the pretty boy that’s normally attached to your hip?” she asks by way of greeting. “Don’t often see one of you without the other.” </p><p>Since coming back from New Vegas, Six has been gone more often in the evenings. Boone had seen him in the chow hall earlier, but Six had just given him a distracted wave and disappeared. It’s almost like Six is avoiding him. </p><p>He takes a bite of his chow - some kind of corn and noodle thing that’s probably just whatever was left in the pantry thrown together and baked - and makes her wait for a response while he chews. Sometimes it irritates her, and Boone’s not above a little bit of needling. </p><p>“If you want a piece, you’ll have to get in line.” he says finally. It’s more of a joke than anything else - Boone knows that Betsy doesn’t swing towards men. Betsy snorts. </p><p>“Not my type. Neither are you, before you ask.” she says laconically. </p><p>“Wasn’t planning to.” </p><p>“Good.” </p><p>He finishes off his chow and sets the plate aside. Betsy fishes another cigarette out of her blouse pocket and offers it over. Boone takes it and lets her light it for him, sighs in relief as the nicotine hits him. </p><p>Female soldiers are a rarity in 1st Recon, and even outside 1<sup>st</sup> Recon they’re not well-received on the front lines in general. Plenty of male soldiers still believe that females can’t shoot for shit, despite the evidence to the contrary. In the early days of his service, despite having a female squad leader himself, Boone had shared some of those dumb, sexist sentiments. The next time they went to the shooting range, his squad leader had put every round of her first magazine right into the crotch area of the man-shaped silhouette on Boone’s target. They never talked about it, but Boone was smart enough to pull his head out of his ass. He’s learned to respect female NCR soldiers for the shit they put up with from their male counterparts, and enjoy having conversations that aren’t all about posturing and comparing battle scars.</p><p>“How long you been with 1st Recon?” he asks. They’ve talked here and there, but he’s never asked. </p><p>“Just over a year and a half now. Been here at McCarran for about six months.” </p><p>“You must have joined right after I left, then.” Boone muses. </p><p>“Ha. Leadership had a lot to say about Sergeant Boone. Could have left us smaller shoes to fill.” </p><p>“They tell you about the first time I spotted a Legion patrol?” Boone asks. Betsy shakes her head. “Hadn’t been in the NCR but a month. Saw ‘em coming over the hill while I was on watch and we were camped out. Red feathers, leather skirt, everything. I sounded the alarm and woke everyone up. Then the LT sighted in on them. Ended up being a kid with a red handkerchief and a skirt, traveling with her family. The guys busted my balls for weeks.”</p><p>Betsy’s cackle is enough to make Boone smile a little bit too. She projects an aura of toughness, but she’s not afraid to take it easy and have a laugh, at someone else’s expense or her own. They trade some stories back and forth of fuck-ups and funny situations. Betsy had once been dared to try riding a Bighorner and got caught by the base commander. One of Boone’s squadmates got so wasted on a trip to New Vegas that he passed out, so they propped him up in a booth at the Tops and put Boone’s sunglasses on him to hide it. Betsy was once chased out of a house stark naked by a man who never realized his wife was a lesbian. </p><p>“What’s your take on things here?” he asks when the conversation hits a lull. “Situation seems a little shittier than when I was in.” </p><p>“It’s a lot shittier.” Betsy says with a grimace. “NCR’s stretched too thin, and General Wait-and-See has us wasting our time picking off Fiends. I didn’t join to headshot junkie bitches that are too hopped up to even know they’re the bad guy. I joined to fight real threats.” </p><p>Boone remembers feeling that way. Time and too many desperate circumstances had taken care of that. He wishes his whole enlistment had been shooting violent junkies. Maybe then he’d actually sleep at night. But Betsy’s got her own demons already. After what happened to her, it might be harder to stay here and pick off small fry. Maybe she felt like what she’d sacrificed was worth more than that. </p><p>“Sometimes I feel like we shouldn’t even be here.” Betsy says with a sigh. “Between New Vegas and the Legion… well, fuck. They’re both going to suck the life out of us, and then destroy each other.”</p><p>“Was for the dam.” Boone reminds her. “The Republic needs it for the land back home just as much as they need it here. And you can’t hold the dam without holding everything else.” </p><p>“Won’t matter if we get blasted off the map.” Betsy counters. Which...she’s right. If the NCR overextends itself and collapses, they might as well have not done anything at all. Whether you try to protect people doesn’t matter. It’s whether you succeed that matters. </p><p>Boone knows. He’s failed enough times at protecting someone to know. </p><p>“What’s your partner think?” Betsy asks. “He pro-NCR? I guess he must be a little bit, if he’s here with you.” </p><p>“Don’t know him that well.” Boone says for the thousandth time. Every time he has to say it, it raises more questions in his head. “He’s never said anything against the NCR, anyway. Seems to mostly do his own thing.” </p><p>Boone remembers the last time he’d asked Six what their plan was, how quickly Six had changed the subject and disappeared. Something about it feels wrong. Boone needs to corner him and get a straight answer, he thinks. He’ll bring it up next time he gets a chance. He picks up his tin plate and pushes to his feet, grunts a quiet good-night to Betsy and takes off into the darkness.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 4 warnings: Masturbation. More flashbacks. Specifically, Boone remembers some of the 'mercy killings' he's been involved in. </p><p>I have never been a combat sniper in post-apocalyptic America, so I have no idea if their style of shooting differs from that of a regular rifle. If you ever become a combat sniper in post-apocalyptic America and it turns out this depiction was wrong, don't come for me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>PRE-CHAPTER WARNING: There is a real-time description of a suicide attempt at the end of this chapter. If you'd like to skip it, stop reading at the point when Boone gets to Novac. I will put a non-graphic summary of this part at the end of the chapter for those who want to know what happens without reading it. Please take care of your mental health and read with caution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That the last one?” Six pants, eyeing the rooftops with suspicion. Boone backs up to get a better view. Nobody visible on top of the building. Leaning his rifle carefully up against the wall, he jumps up and catches the roof of the shed, pulls himself up on top of it. It gives him enough height to see across the space, make sure all the Fiends are dead. </p><p>“Clear.” he calls down and jumps off the shed. </p><p>Six is knelt down next to the body. He pulls the tarp from his pack and starts spreading it out next to the corpse so they can roll it up before they carry it. After being left out in the sun for a few days, it stinks to high heaven. The stench is so bad it makes Boone’s eyes water.</p><p>It’s worth it, though. No NCR soldier deserves to rot in the sun if there’s another option. And it’s sick of the Fiends to use his body as a trap for other soldiers.  </p><p>Boone joins Six on the other side of the body to help him heave it onto the tarp. Once it’s rolled up tight, Boone slaps some strips of duct tape on the tarp to hold it together, and the deed is done. The thick sheet controls some of the smell, for which Boone is grateful. </p><p>“Ready?” Six asks. Boone nods, hands him his rifle, and waits as Six slings it across his back. Then they grab each end and lift it into the air. Morales isn’t particularly big, but with full NCR armour on, he’s still heavy. It takes a lot of fumbling for them to get the body splayed over Boone’s shoulders where he can carry him the most effectively. </p><p>“Let’s go.” Boone grunts. Six nods, pistol in hand, and they step out. </p><p>It’s only a half-mile or so to the closest NCR checkpoint, and they can take the road the whole way, so Boone doesn’t have to worry as much about stumbling over something as he would if they were slogging it through the cracked, dry earth. Still, it’s not an easy trek. With Morales rolled up in the tarp, there’s less to hold on to to keep him balanced properly. Boone has to stop several times to readjust, but he’s afraid to handle the body too roughly in case he breaks something. The road leaves them more exposed too and that makes Boone uncomfortable, even though they’d done a sweep of the area before going for the corpse and found nothing. </p><p>They’re two-thirds of the way back to the checkpoint when he hears the first bullet whiz by. Cursing, he turns and heaves the body off his shoulders, taking off for the rock outcropping that Six is already beelining for. Six is taking shots as he runs, trying to keep the heat off Boone so he can make it to cover. The Fiends in the distance duck back behind the building for a moment, but Boone knows it won’t be long before they press their advantage. One shooter with a 10 millimeter isn’t much of a threat. </p><p>They reach the rock outcropping unharmed. Six holsters his pistol momentarily so he can unsling Boone’s rifle and hand it over. The checkpoint is close enough that the NCR soldiers manning it can engage too; their gunfire evens the playing field a little bit. Boone and Six take opposite sides of the cover so they can shoot without stumbling over each other. </p><p>Six gets one in the shoulder; another goes down, probably courtesy of one of the NCR soldiers. A crack shot, whoever it is. Boone leans out to take aim and notices the movement at the corner of his eye too late. </p><p>Something slams into his side under his raised arm, knocking him to the ground as hard as a baseball bat to the ribs. His rifle clatters from his fingers. Boone tries to scramble up but collapses again when white-hot pain rips through his torso. Even breathing makes him grit his teeth in agony.</p><p>“Boone! <em>Shit!” </em>he hears dimly. He can’t turn his head enough to see, but he feels Six pass by him. A few more shots are exchanged; finally, Six appears in his vision, looking frantic. </p><p>“That’s a lot of blood. <em>Shit, </em>Boone, you probably can’t even stand, can you? No, don’t try, just - just lay down, okay, let me put pressure on it.” </p><p>Six leans over and presses his hands to Boone’s ribcage, over the wound. The pain is so intense that Boone’s vision flashes black; he holds onto consciousness just barely, scared to let himself pass out. </p><p>Six is speaking. Boone can’t make out what he’s saying. Dust kicks up around them as someone approaches; he can’t do anything but flinch.  More speaking. His eyes are too heavy to keep open. Finally, somebody slips an arm underneath his torso, and the agony of being lifted is too much. He slips into darkness. </p><p>--</p><p>Flashes of consciousness come to him, interspersed with long periods of nothing. It hurts to open his eyes, but he tries anyway.  The tan ceiling of a tent. The pinch of a needle in his arm. A doctor with bright blonde hair that looks strangely familiar.</p><p>Another flash - Six’s concerned face. He asks something, but Boone can’t remember what it is. </p><p>At one point, he thinks he hears a conversation being held over him. Six’s voice. </p><p> “-need somebody to come with me --better to leave him here-”</p><p>A male. “-not a good idea-” </p><p>Six again. “-not really a choice, Arcade.” </p><p>Another pinch. He falls back into darkness. </p><p>--</p><p>When he finally wakes for good, it’s to the inside of a tent again, unlit except for a single lantern perched atop a table in the far corner. His ribs on the right side feel like somebody tried to break them with a sledgehammer. When he pushes himself up to a sitting position and probes tenderly, he finds his whole torso swathed in bandages. </p><p>There’s a woman in a white lab coat dozing in the corner, her mohawked head propped up on one hand. At the rustling of him sitting up, she blinks awake and mashes the heel of one hand into her eye. </p><p>“Wow.” she says, looking impressed. “I didn’t expect you to wake up that early. You took quite a hit out there.” </p><p>Boone rubs at his crusty eyes and attempts to summon up some spit for his dry mouth. It feels like he tried to swallow sand. </p><p>“Where am I?” he asks when he can finally speak. The woman has gotten up and is now fiddling with the buttons on his IV machine, checking the placement of the needle in his hand. </p><p>“You’re in the Old Mormon Fort. My name is Julie Farkas. The NCR brought you here from McCarran after it was clear they didn’t have the know-how to treat your gunshot wound. I’d have some commentary on that, but the truth is you nearly didn’t make it anyway. Still, you’re stable now, and you’ll make a full recovery.” </p><p>Old Mormon Fort? That meant the Followers. Strange. He’s heard stories of them, knows plenty of NCR who sing their praises, just never really interacted with them himself. He wonders if all their doctors look like Julie. </p><p>“And Six?” he asks. The doctor’s mouth twists; she suddenly becomes very intent on jotting something down on her clipboard. When it becomes clear that Boone isn’t going to let his question go, she gives in and answers. </p><p>“He left. He said there was something that he needed to do, and that you wouldn’t approve of it. He also said to tell you he was sorry, if that’s any consolation. I didn’t ask any more details.” </p><p>So Boone hadn’t been making up Six’s suspicious behavior. He really was hiding something. Boone realizes he’s frowning at the doctor, and that she’s noticed and is uncomfortably staring at his chart to avoid his gaze. He turns his attention to the IV in the back of his hand, presses down on the entry point, and pulls it out. Julie looks up, watches with disappointment as he starts rooting around for his boots. She doesn’t try to stop him, though. The Followers treat mostly drug addicts and criminals; this is probably the normal ending to the story for her. </p><p>“Where did they go?” he asks as he finds his boots and tugs them on, one at a time. Moving makes his side hurt, but it’s the hurt of healing and of bruises, not of serious damage that would keep him bedridden. The worst is past - he just needs to be careful until he’s at 100% again. </p><p>“I don’t know. Like I said, he didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. When they left, they headed southeast.” </p><p>His pack, rifle, and beret are stacked on the table in the corner. Boone pulls his beret on, tears through the pack pragmatically to see that everything’s still there. All his supplies, plus a pouch of a thousand caps that he hadn’t had before. A fully stocked medical kit in a plastic case is lying next to his things. He takes it, shoves it into his pack. He’ll need food to take with him. </p><p>“They? Who is they?” he asks as he works. Could be a clue. He’ll need all the information he can get. </p><p>“He took one of my researchers with him. Arcade Gannon. I’m not sure why, I don’t think they even knew each other before you were brought here.” </p><p>The name doesn’t mean anything to him, but he does get a flash of blonde hair and glasses in his memory. The man Six had been speaking to before? Probably. </p><p>“Owe you anything?” he asks, tugging the pack on. Julie purses her lips, as if to keep herself from admonishing him for what he’s about to do. He appreciates it; not time to get into an argument over something that meaningless. His well-being isn’t relevant. </p><p>“I ask all my patients to repay us by not doing anything stupid and getting themselves killed. Is that something you can handle?” she asks. Boone shrugs, picks up his rifle. </p><p><em>I’m already dead. Just haven’t stopped breathing yet, </em>he thinks. “I’ll see what I can do. ...thanks. For patching me up.” </p><p>Loose ends tied up, he turns for the tent flap and leaves. No use sticking around. </p><p>The air outside is chilly, the sky overhead dark. The Followers’ camp is mostly dead, so it must be fairly late, whatever time it is. Doesn’t matter. He heads for the entrance. </p><p>Boone’s no Ranger, but he’s had some training in tracking a target. He makes an educated guess that if Six was headed southeast, he’d have taken Highway 95. His hunch pays off when he hits the Grub ‘n’ Gulp rest stop in early morning, where the proprietor admits that he did see a tan-skinned man with long dark hair and a man with glasses come through a few days ago. Headed south, Boone gets. He keeps moving. </p><p>The 188 Trading post says the same. A blonde man and a dark-haired one, headed south along 95. Boone finds evidence of somebody making camp in the El Dorado gas station where they’d stayed on the way up to Vegas. He stays there that night, having been near asleep on his feet for the last few miles of the trek, and checks his wound to make sure he hasn’t done anything to it. It’s fine, but healing slowly with the lack of adequate nutrition and rest. He does a shit job trying to rebandage it by himself. Not a problem. He’ll have time to care about that when he tracks Six down. </p><p>Between Six’s nervousness earlier in the week and his sudden abandonment, Boone gets a very bad feeling about where all this is leading. He pushes the thoughts away as he hunkers down in his sleeping bag, shivering in the cold. The fitful sleep he suffers through does little to ease his fatigue. Once dawn breaks out over the horizon, he packs up and moves on. </p><p>Cliff, in Novac, hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Six. Doc Straus admits tersely, after some persuasion and maybe a few threats against her supplier, that Six had bought some supplies off her a day or two prior. Where had he gone? She doesn’t fucking know. South, probably? </p><p>When he reaches the crossroads near Camp Searchlight, there’s nobody around that has seen a dark-haired man or a man with glasses. Boone has to make a decision. Does he follow his gut and assume the worst by heading east, or does he head west in hopes of a better answer? </p><p>It’s not a hard decision, really. Boone isn’t a smart man, but he knows what people are like. He turns left at the crossroads and heads east. </p><p>Cottonwood Cove is set down in a valley surrounded by hills, which makes it easy for a lone sniper to get in and do recon. All he has to do is avoid the Legion patrols in the area, and they’ve taken so much more territory going West that they’re complacent this far out. It’s not hard. Besides, he’s done this before.</p><p>He spreads out in a sheltered crag in the rocky face of a cliff, where he’s hidden from sight both from the front and from the top. No Legionaries are going to be stumbling in on him here. Pack set up as a rifle rest, he sights in on Cottonwood Cove and starts scanning. </p><p>The nice thing about Legionaries is that they stick to the same clothing and color schemes. Makes picking out anybody who doesn’t belong easy. Two figures, neither dressed in the leg-baring skirts of the Legion, are making their way down towards the dock. The taller one has a shock of bright blonde hair that Boone recognizes vaguely and what looks like a white lab-coat; the shorter one is tan, wearing a leather chestplate and a faded linen shirt. He watches as they make their way down to the water and engage a Legionary in brief conversation. </p><p>That’s it, then. Six is a Legion sympathizer. Boone shouldn’t be surprised. And yet, somehow he is. Something deep in his gut clenches painfully, making it hard for him to get a breath. He’d never actually asked what it was of Six’s that Benny had. Boone had figured Six for an outsider, no real allegiance to anybody, and that could be a bad thing with some people but it hadn’t felt that way with Six. Hadn’t felt like he was sharing a campfire with somebody that thought slavery and murder was the way to run the world. </p><p>The two are getting into a boat, the Legionary already seated inside and ready to steer them to the Legion’s stronghold. It’s not too far to make the shot. Boone kicks his legs out wide, settles into position, lines up the sight - and stays there, finger frozen on the trigger. He can’t make the shot. He needs to, wants to, but he can’t.</p><p>It takes a long time for the dark head to disappear out from under his crosshairs.   </p><p>What the hell is wrong with him? Boone has never frozen like that before. Not even with Carla. But it’s been a long time since then. Boone’s become softer, <em>weaker</em> since then. He knows what the right thing is, but memories of Six keep coming to him - his bright, infectious smile; the serious tilt of his head, sighting in on a target; the soft sound of his breathing in the dark. Boone doesn’t know how that person and the one in that boat can be the same person. But he’s been taken for a fool before. Looks like he has been again.</p><p>Six is the <em>worst </em>kind of person, and yet Boone can’t shoot him. All he can do is lay here and hate himself for being a coward. </p><p>Well, if Six really thinks this is the answer… he deserves what’s coming to him. The Legion will take what they feel is rightfully theirs, and leave what’s left to the dogs. Six might never be seen again. Boone hopes he never is, or he knows exactly what he’ll do. It would be the only thing he can do to redeem himself.</p><p>Six and Gannon have been out of sight for well over an hour by the time Boone finally packs up and makes his way back west.  He doesn’t think much about what he’s going to do now; just as they had the last time he’d made this trek, he finds his feet leading him back to Novac without any conscious input from his brain. When he reaches the motel, he unlocks the door to his room woodenly, throws his things on the bed, and then fetches the rope from the cabinet. He lays it out across the floor, pre-tied noose carefully straightened out on one end, sits down on the carpet and looks at it. Instead of putting it back in the cabinet, as he’s done so many times before, he throws it in the sink, just under the thick metal pipe that crosses his bathroom ceiling. </p><p>Cliff Briscoe is the only one to ask about Six, when Boone shows up asking for a bottle of whiskey. Boone’s cold, hostile stare convinces Cliff that asking that question again means a bad end for him; in return for not doing anything rash, Cliff gives him the whiskey for free, along with a six pack of bitter, watery beer that Boone downs one after another without pause. </p><p>He gets very, very drunk. The more he drinks, the more the world fades around the edges, going quiet and slow. He sits at his small, shitty table, in his small, shitty room and thinks that he wishes it could be this quiet and slow all the time. </p><p>Damn Six. Damn Manny. Damn Jeannie May, and Caesar, and the Legion, and every other son of a bitch walking this earth that takes life away from the people that deserve it. And damn himself too. He’s taken away his own share of innocent lives. He wants to meet the callous, uncaring bastard of a higher power that lets him walk around free while other people suffer and die.</p><p>Boone takes a long pull from the whiskey - and only air meets his lips. The bottle is empty. </p><p>He tosses it on the floor. </p><p>He pushes up from the table heavily. Stumbles over his own feet. </p><p>He grabs the rope. The room spins nearly out of control as he flings the knotted end over the metal pipe and wraps the loose end around the bed railing. Once. Twice. Tie it tight, so it doesn’t slip. Might pull the bed a bit, but it should work. </p><p>He drags over the chair from the table. </p><p>Boone wants to sleep forever. He wants the world to stay soft and slow always, to be alone and away from all the people he can’t take care of, the people that he fails. To be away from everything that’s ever happened to him. He wants to feel just like he does in the hours after he passes out and before he wakes up, hungover, crouched over the toilet and forced to endure every roiling inch of being alive. </p><p>This will get him there. </p><p>He doesn’t even kick the chair over himself. He simply loses balance and falls, body making the decision where his brain might have hesitated. The rope is searing pain across his neck, eyes watering from the pain – </p><p>- And then he crashes to the ground in a heap, coughing and shaking. His vision is completely dark for a few long, agonizing minutes. </p><p>Above him, the rope hangs, two sides of the noose split cleanly down the middle as if someone had taken a knife to it.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 5 warnings: someone gets shot. Suicidal ideation. Alcohol abuse. A suicide attempt described in real time.</p><p>Non-graphic summary: After Boone sees Six and Arcade in Cottonwood Cove going to the Legion's stronghold, he returns to Novac. He gets very drunk and attempts suicide. The attempt fails because someone has taken a knife to his rope.</p><p>Re: this chapter - I know that there is fierce debate about the practice of describing suicide attempts in detail. There's good evidence that even mentioning attempts in media further increases the number of suicide attempts. As someone that experiences suicidal ideation, I acknowledge this issue while also realizing that for me personally, being vague about the topic of suicide is not helpful. I don't live in a world of vague memories.</p><p>This is one moment in Boone's life. It is not where he started nor is it where he will end. It's merely something he has to get through to reach his happy ending. Keep holding on.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Since that last chapter sucked, you get another. As a treat.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He drifts in and out of consciousness from then on, sobering up just enough to go to Cliff for more booze and not leaving his hotel room otherwise. He doesn’t return to his shifts in the Dinosaur. He just drinks, drinks, forgets to eat, and increasingly finds himself splayed out across the floor, staring at the rope hanging from the pipe. Did he cut it? Did he know what was about to happen and try to stop it? He can’t remember. </p><p>He couldn’t say how many days it’s been when he hears the knocking on his door. He’s too drunk to even get up and answer if he wanted to; just shifting makes his head spin. The room has a sour smell to it nowadays; Boone thinks he may have vomited in here somewhere at one point, but he’s forgotten where. </p><p>The knocking turns into pounding. Boone squeezes his eyes shut, trying to cut down on the pain flashing through his head from the noise. The banging finally stops, and he’s able to sigh in relief. </p><p>He doesn’t realize until too late what the quiet clicking is coming from the door. With a whoosh, Boone feels it swing open, sees how the fading sunlight from the setting sun appears across the top half of the room. He’s been laying on the floor for hours now, unmoving; the first time he tries to push to his feet he loses balance and comes crashing back down, but the second time he manages to stay standing.</p><p>The immense rush of pure rage he gets at seeing Six’s face chases away most of the nausea and stops the swaying. He stands there in the doorway, bobby pin and screwdriver in hand, and watches Boone. The familiar concerned crease between his eyebrows makes an appearance. Boone sights in on it, the audacity of such a fake manipulative fucking emotion, and feels the rage start to boil over. </p><p>“You need to leave.” he says in a dangerously quiet tone of voice. It’s difficult to talk – his throat feels like it’s been torn in half and sewn back together.</p><p> Six doesn’t move. Boone stalks forward, a snarl on his lips, and brings his face so close to Six’s that they nearly bump noses. </p><p>“<em>Get. Out.” </em></p><p>“Can we talk?” Six replies quietly. He pockets the screwdriver and fidgets with the bobby pin, his large hands turning the small piece of metal over and over again. Boone feels his shoulders tense up and his right hand curl into a fist, aching to sink itself into Six’s nose. He’s not sure why he doesn’t. If he could remember where he left his rifle, he’d be going for it right now. </p><p>“If you don’t leave, I’m going to do something I won’t regret.” he warns. Boone should just kill him. He should grab the combat knife stabbed into the table and slit his throat, drive it into Six’s gut, let his innards spill out and leave him to die a slow, horrible death. It would still be less than he deserves. </p><p>Six takes one last look at him and flees. Boone slams the door shut behind him and stumbles for the table, where his whiskey is waiting.</p><p>He drinks to the point of throwing up again, and then drinks some more to replace what he’s thrown up. He doesn’t realize he’d forgotten to lock the door behind Six until he wakes up to a large form leaning over him. </p><p>Boone has the stranger face down on the floor in a clumsy, drunken arm lock within seconds. It’s not until he’s grabbing for his knife that he stops to take a look at the man below him. The face smashed into the floor is pale and familiar, with a shock of neatly-combed white-blond hair and dark-rimmed glasses. </p><p>“Somehow, this is not the welcome I was expecting.” the man mutters into the carpet. “Silly me.” </p><p>Boone’s knife is still driven tip-first into the table, out of easy reach. That’s probably the only reason Gannon isn’t dead yet. Boone leans his knee into the stranger’s back, mussing up his white labcoat and inciting a grunt of pain, before he lets go and stumbles away, clutching at his head. He feels like it’s going to explode. Boone reaches out blindly for the bed and collapses onto it. </p><p>“Surprisingly, you’re still not the worst patient I’d had the pleasure of tending to. <em>Nihil novi sub sole, </em>I suppose.<em>”</em> the man says, surprisingly calmly. “Are you interested in not feeling like your head is cracking in half?” </p><p>Boone looks up to see that the man has a vial of med-x in one hand. He thinks about chasing the doctor out, but he feels so wretched that all he can think about is the relief the medicine will bring. Grunting, Boone holds out his arm and lets the doctor slide the needle into his vein. The med-x spreads through his body in waves, leaving him exhausted and weak but more clear-headed. </p><p>“Excellent. Can you feel all your limbs? How many fingers am I holding up?” Boone looks up, assumes it’s a joke because Arcade isn’t holding any fingers up. Instead, the doctor peels his eyelid back and scrutinizes him with a thoughtful frown. His eyes flick down to Boone’s neck only for a split second, so quick Boone almost wonders if he imagines it.  “Well, looks like no real damage done. But maybe take it a little easier next time? Livers don’t grow on trees, not that we have any trees around here to experiment with.” </p><p>Boone swats his hand away. Arcade doesn’t take offense, just ambles over to a chair in the corner and sits patiently. </p><p>“Six, once he was able to speak coherently, informed me that there’s a slight misunderstanding between you two. He asked me to step in. Something about bodily harm aimed in his direction.” </p><p><em>Damn right. </em>Boone thinks sourly. He should have taken the shot. Six is too clever to be working with the Legion - his returning unscathed is proof of that. Who knows what kind of damage he’s already done, might do in the future to innocent people. </p><p>Boone still has time. If Six is still here… he’ll put a bullet in Six’s head and take him down. For good, this time. </p><p>“-are you listening to me?” Boone snaps back to the present, realizes the doctor has been prattling on while he’s deep in thought. Not like Boone owes him his attention. </p><p>“...were you saying something worth listening to?” </p><p>Arcade sighs and presses at his temples. He’s clearly frustrated with the situation. Boone has no pity. He’d thought better of the Followers before meeting this sham. Thought Caesar was an exception in their group, not the rule. </p><p>“Let me say it again. Please listen this time.” Arcade starts, fixing his gaze on Boone. “You seem to be under the impression that Six is working for the Legion. That impression is wrong.”</p><p>He feels the anger start gnawing away at his insides again. Does this man think he’s <em>stupid? </em>What else do you call it when somebody walks into a Legion camp, allegedly meets with Caesar himself, and then returns to the Mojave completely unharmed? Just because Six isn’t running around in a skirt with a coyote on his head doesn’t mean he’s not working for them. </p><p>“I don’t know the whole story, but there was something there Six needed to get, and he needed to play the game to get in and out of the Fort safely. I was with him almost the whole time - I can guarantee there’s no funny business going down.” </p><p>“And who the fuck are you to me, exactly?” Boone snaps back. His grip on the bedspread is so tight his knuckles are white. </p><p>Arcade sighs, as if Boone is a small and unruly child. “You’re a stubborn man, aren’t you? If you want to ignore the truth, fine. Just don’t take it out on Six - he’s not holding up very well. I’m not either, if we’re being honest. We could have been crossing the Phlegethon and I wouldn’t have noticed any difference.”</p><p>Arcade digs another Med-x syringe from his pocket and throws it down onto the table carelessly. Then he stands and beelines for the door. </p><p>“Next time you take a shower - and I hope against all odds that that time is soon - you should try excavating your head from your ass. Just a suggestion.” With that, the doctor is gone.</p><p>Boone picks up an empty whiskey bottle, throws it across the room. It shatters with a satisfying sound. He looks for another, but there’s nothing in reach. Sighing, he buries his face in his hands. </p><p>It’s all so damn complicated. Carla. Bitter Springs. The Legion. Six. New Vegas. They meld together, form connections, spin around in his brain like a sick carousel. </p><p>Playing the game? Can he believe that? Can he look a man in the face that’s stood in front of Caesar and believe he’s not with them? </p><p>A door slams above him. A voice - low, masculine, unintelligible. </p><p>His room and the one above are connected through an air vent. Used to drive him crazy, trying to take a shower and hearing people’s voices through the vent in the bathroom. Maybe now it’ll come in handy. </p><p>He pushes the bathroom door open, crawls up on top of the toilet unsteadily. The vent is just a foot or two above him, close enough to easily hear the conversation being had. </p><p>“-don’t see why you bother.” he hears. A shuffling, silence. </p><p>“Of course you see.” Six’s voice. A grudging noise of acknowledgement from Arcade. “I found that noose the first time I came through, when he asked me to help him. You telling me you could have walked away from that?” </p><p>Boone shifts and presses a hand flat against the wall to keep himself upright. It’s not easy balancing on top of a toilet for long stretches of time, especially in his state. </p><p>“...I see what you mean.” a long exhale. “I think he’ll come around, once he’s done drinking himself into a stupor. I suppose I can see how he might have come to the conclusion he did, if I try to imagine it from his perspective.” </p><p>More silence. Then, a shuddering exhale, followed by a dry, broken sob. Arcade starts muttering something nonsensical and soothing. Boone climbs down from off of the toilet. </p><p>It’s a hard call. People don’t just walk out of the Fort alive after meeting with Caesar himself. He’s watched Six charm information and trust out of people he’s only just met too many times. Boone would be foolish to think Six isn’t doing the same to him right now. All of his squadmates in the NCR had known he had a soft spot, if you talked to him right. Couldn’t hold some people responsible for anything. Manny had told him a thousand times that he let Carla walk all over him, that he needed to man up and tell her ‘no’ once in a while. If they could figure it out, Six already has for sure. </p><p>But. </p><p>He doesn’t operate without proof. He didn’t see what happened at the Fort. If Six is telling the truth and Boone kills him, then his blood would be on Boone’s hands. If Six is lying...if Six is lying, Boone isn’t going to let him get away with it. </p><p>There’s only one decision. Stay with him, and figure out his game. If he’s been lying to Boone, Boone will put him down. </p><p>--</p><p>He wakes up to more knocking on the door. This time, when he actually opens it, it’s Six, holding a place of Brahmin steak and eggs and looking as nervous as nervous can be. </p><p>“Brought breakfast. I’ve been told by a reliable source that you haven’t eaten in a while.” </p><p>Boone’s stomach takes that moment to let out a pitiful rumble. Traitor, he thinks sourly. </p><p>He lets Six in without a word, then turns on his heel and heads to the bathroom. Six doesn’t protest. </p><p>Boone pisses, looks at the shower, then starts undressing. Six can wait. He needs to get the stink of not washing for a week off of himself.</p><p>Freshly scrubbed, dressed in a relatively clean pair of pants and faded shirt, he emerges from the bathroom to find Six has thrown the curtains wide and is staring out the window from his seat at the table, as if in a trance. He jerks out of it when Boone drags a chair out and sits down. Six pushes the plate of food (a peace offering?) towards him and gestures at him to eat. Boone doesn’t so much as glance at the plate.</p><p>“We need to talk.” </p><p>Six sighs, bows his head in submission. </p><p>“If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s working with some <em>dog </em>of the Legion.”  he says coldly. “<em>This </em>stops right now.” </p><p>“I understand why you’re angry.” he says quietly. “I knew you would be, which is why I was so afraid to tell you. But you have to understand -” </p><p>“Then explain.” Boone interrupts, in no mood to listen to the man wax eloquent. Six sets an elbow on the table, leans his forehead on his hand so he’s looking down at the scarred wood rather than at Boone. </p><p>“I told you in Vegas that Benny took the chip I was supposed to get back and disappeared. A frumentarii came to the Strip, right after Benny split, and gave me Caesar’s mark. He said Caesar wanted to meet me, and that Benny was headed to the Fort. So I knew if I was going to get the chip, the only way I could do it was to go there and meet with Caesar. Boone, I’m not a Legion sympathizer. They’re sick and what they do is wrong. The whole time I was there, I just -” he stops and swallows visibly. When he starts again, his voice is trembling just a little. </p><p>“The chip is some sort of data to upgrade the securitron’s capabilities in New Vegas. Caesar knew that I was working for Mr. House, so he wanted me to take the chip and destroy whatever was on it instead of installing the upgrade. And then he made me...made me kill Benny.” </p><p>Six seems to barely get those last words out. Despite the fact that Benny had shot Six in the head and left him for dead, Six sounds sincerely upset about Benny’s death. Boone can’t pretend to know what it means for two people to sleep together if they’re not in love, but he guesses if you make that kind of connection, turning around and killing that person would be hard to do. </p><p>“So you destroyed the data? For the Legion?” he asks. Six shakes his head. </p><p>“I uploaded it, like Mr. House asked. They just assumed I destroyed it and let me go. Whatever you may think of me, I’m not here to help the Legion. I’m certainly not here to let them destroy something as grand as New Vegas.” </p><p><em>Grand? </em>That’s a strong word for it. New Vegas has always been a thorn in the NCR’s side - they struggle to hold the area specifically because they have to pour so many resources into protecting New Vegas, a town that gives them precious little in exchange. New Vegas might just be the reason they lose the Dam, in fact, and the Dam is the only thing keeping the NCR alive. There’s not much that’s grand about that. Thousands of people will be left unprotected if the NCR falls. </p><p>“Why are you even involved in this?” he asks scornfully. “What are you getting out of it?” </p><p>For the first time since the conversation started, Six gets a little of his old humour back and lets out an amused huff. </p><p>“Not really a damn thing.” he admits with a wry smile. “But what else am I supposed to do?” </p><p>“Go back to your life before you delivered that package?” he suggests. <em>That’s what I did. ...guess that wouldn’t make it sound like a very good option, </em>he thinks, glancing around at his disaster of a room. </p><p>The smile wipes off Six’s face at that suggestion, shockingly quickly.  </p><p>“…I can’t.” he says softly. “I don’t remember. Before being shot. Hard to go back, in that case.”</p><p>“…oh.” Well. That would make it difficult.  “Nothing at all?”</p><p>Six purses his lips. One broad hand scratches absently at the knife guard on his forearm, then slides down to the exposed skin at his wrist.</p><p>“That might almost be easier.” He says. Pauses. “Have you heard of the Hualapai?”</p><p>Boone shakes his head no. Six snorts, amused in sort of a tired way.</p><p>“No one ever has. I don’t even know why I ask. We used to live near the Colorado River and in a place called Peach Springs. Since before America was even a country. It’s not an easy place to live – the river means that someone was always trying to run us off or stamp us out – but we had agreements with the other groups and tribes, and the land was good to us.</p><p>“The last thing I remember is having a birthday party for my niece. She was just turning one. I was maybe 18. I remember falling asleep that night. After that, nothing. Just waking up in Goodsprings with a hole in my head. Ten years of memories, gone just like that.”</p><p>Boone doesn’t know what to say to that. He tries, “Must have been a hell of a hole.”</p><p>Dark, but it gets a chuckle out of Six. Considering their surroundings, dark is fitting anyway.</p><p>Boone doesn’t know much about the land east of NCR territory. He wasn’t even aware there were any groups left that could trace their lineage back to pre-war times, let alone pre-America. But there’s not much news coming from that direction these days. And for good reason.</p><p>He doesn’t want to ask the question. There’s only one answer for what happened to Six’s people. Six sees the thought in his eyes though, and answers without being prompted.</p><p>“I don’t know, Boone. But according to people who knew me before, I’ve been working as a courier for years. If there was anything to go back to, that wouldn’t be the case.”</p><p>Shit. That’s probably true. Must be terrible not to know for certain, though. One of Boone’s most reoccurring nightmares is shooting at Carla and missing, having to wonder whether his wife and child are still out there, suffering. But information is like water in this place – it’s precious and dries up in the wind in no time at all. If anyone knows what happened to Six’s tribe, they probably aren’t around to say.</p><p>Boone remembers the plate of food at his elbow and starts to eat, just for something to do with his hands. Six watches him, looking almost wistful. Having an audience makes him curl over his food uncomfortably.</p><p>Six asks, “So...are you staying? In Novac, I mean?” </p><p>Boone swallows a bite of brahmin, throat dry as the Mojave outside. Wishes he had his canteen to wash it down with. It’s here, somewhere in the room, probably, but he doesn’t have the first idea where to look. </p><p>If Six’s story is true, he probably has no love for the Legion. But Boone’s heard stranger tales in the desert than men pledging loyalty to groups that wiped their family out. Boone isn’t quite ready to believe Six is innocent. Not yet. He has a responsibility to find out the truth.</p><p>“I’ll come with you.” He says quietly, pushing the empty plate away. Despite the grim atmosphere and the sour smell in the air, Six finds it in himself to grace Boone with a small smile.</p><p>“I’m glad to hear that. Arcade is great, but I missed having my sharpshooter at my back.” Six pushes up from the table and heads for the door. Stops with his hand on the handle, looks around at the dank room. “...there’s a spare bed in the room I have. If you want it. Might be...more comfortable.” </p><p>--</p><p>Boone tells himself, when he shows up at Six’s door with his things, that he’s doing it because he needs to keep an eye on Six. Nothing to do with the noose still hanging in the bathroom.</p><p>Six let him in and disappears into the bathroom as Boone is stacking his things besides the second bed. The sound of water running trickles into the room. Boone collapses on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, wondering if he’s making the right decision.</p><p>On one hand, Six might be a Legion sympathizer. Boone won’t leave until he knows whether that’s true. On the other hand…</p><p>On the other hand, Boone won’t soon forget the conversation he’d overheard in the bathroom. Six might be asking him to tag along out of pity. Him being a Legion sympathizer would almost be better than that.</p><p>The last thing he has left after his suicide attempt is a thin sliver of pride, that even if he’s a wreck of a human being, he’s a wreck that can hit a mark at 800 yards. Boone’s glad that Six isn’t better with a rifle, or that excuse would get blown clean out of the water. He won’t stand to be pitied. He needs what little shred of dignity he’s got left.</p><p>And he’s done with alcohol. Permanently. All it’s ever done is make a fool out of him. Boone knows that’s an easier promise to keep now when he’s still green around the gills than it will be in a few days’ time, but he’s endured worse. He can do this.</p><p>The water stops. After a few minutes, the bathroom door creaks open. Boone sees Six turn to look at himself in the mirror out of the corner of one eye, rubbing his damp hair with a faded towel. He’s not wearing his matching pajamas this time – instead, he’s got on a faded t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of old shorts. It’s strange to see his knobbly knees on display. Six chucks the towel on top of his dirty clothes and bundles all of it together, staring down at the cloth. He looks at it all for a strangely long time. Boone realizes that even though his outfit isn’t exactly revealing, he’s still not seen so much of Six on display. The man has knobbly knees.</p><p>Finally, Six turns from the mirror. Boone glances away hurriedly, not wanting to get caught staring. When he looks again, more furtively this time, his eyes catch on the inside of Six’s forearm.</p><p>Ropes of ugly scar tissue slice through the skin from elbow to wrist, exactly the area that Six normally keeps covered with his knife guards or long sleeves. Boone hadn’t thought much of it – it’s good practice for a hot, lawless place like the Mojave, even if you’re as dark as Six is. The severity of the scar tissue means the fresh wounds were either left to heal without intervention, or they were so deep that even a stimpack couldn’t fully erase the evidence.</p><p>Six doesn’t look over or say anything about it, but somehow Boone knows that this is for him.</p><p>Maybe Six doesn’t pity him after all.</p><p>The embarrassed silence in the room lingers as they both struggle to fall asleep. But when Boone wakes up in the middle of the night to piss and sees an empty bathroom and Six’s slumbering form, all he feels is relief.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 6 warnings: references to the suicide attempt of the previous chapter. Boone has some gory thoughts.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to everyone who's been kind enough to give kudos and comment! I'm forever grateful that you take the time to read my work.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Six offers for them to escort Gannon back to the Old Mormon Fort, but Gannon begs off in favor of a group of merchants headed that direction. Boone had tried to stab him with a knife, so he isn’t surprised. Six seems disappointed, though. Boone guesses they must be some kind of friends, if Gannon had agreed to travel to a Legion stronghold with him.</p><p>Boone’s side heals up fine once he stops sabotaging the healing with journeys across the desert and alcohol poisoning. Six tells him that the bullet had lodged in a rib, which is what stopped it from puncturing a vital organ and saved his life.</p><p>Since Six said he wasn’t in a hurry to get back to New Vegas, they’re planning to stop at Fort Nelson on the way, ask about work. Even though it’s just down the road from Novac, Boone hasn’t been in years.</p><p>They take off in early morning, when they can make the trek before the heat of day really begins. A light breeze skims across the desert here and there. The sage brush shakes gently in the wind and gives off a soft perfume. Even walking into the sun isn’t that uncomfortable, since the sun is ambling up over the horizon in a slow, pondering sort of way.</p><p>Though walking through the gates of Novac with Six gives him a strange feeling of déjà vu, something is different this time around. Breathing in the chilly air, Boone feels miles away from the person he had been the last few days. He knows it won’t last. Still, it’s a wonder to trek down the broken highway, the sunlight warming his face, and feel – calm.</p><p>Halfway to Nelson, the peace is still holding. They haven’t seen anybody else on the road – no caravans, no travelers, no NCR. They should have run into someone by now. Slowly, the peaceful feeling fades into something more ominous.</p><p>“Gonna climb up that ridge and see what’s going on.” He says to Six, jabbing a thumb at a landmark a few hundred feet off the road. The climb isn’t easy with his body still recovering, but he finds out when he makes it to the top and sights in with his rifle that it was a good decision. Several thin trails of smoke are spiraling into the sky from the direction of Nelson.  </p><p>He climbs back down to the road and accepts his pack back from Six. “There’s smoke. Shouldn’t be, this time of day.” Boone explains. Six frowns and looks up the road, but they’re a ways from Nelson still, and the landscape holds no clues for them.</p><p>They head out more slowly this time, keeping an eye out around them. The answer comes to them half a mile away from Nelson proper, at a sandbag barrier abuzz with activity. There are NCR soldiers at it, but they’re aiming their scopes the wrong way.  </p><p>“Fucking goddamn shitstain Legionaries.” a PFC grits out in response to Six’s question. Boone doesn’t begrudge her the swearing, because a medic is in the middle of disinfecting a gunshot wound in her leg without anesthetic. “We just set up the fucking base at Nelson when they attacked. We couldn’t even get a radio out to Forlorn Hope or Ranger Station Echo before we were overrun.” </p><p>The medic, without ceremony, plunges a pair of forceps into the gunshot wound in an attempt to dig the bullet out. Cursing, the PFC jerks up; Six grabs her shoulder and holds her down, and Boone offers her a hand to grip. The PFC takes it and squeezes so hard Boone thinks she might break his hand. </p><p>“Almost got it… almost…. <em>There. </em>Fucker’s in one piece, thank God.” the medic holds up the bullet for the PFC to see, then flings it out into the desert. Panting, the PFC collapses and closes her eyes. Boone watches her pale, sweaty face as the medic binds the wound and rinses his hands off with water from a canteen. </p><p>Only three soldiers man the barrier – the medic, the hurt PFC, and one more soldier that’s keeping watch over the sandbag barrier so they don’t get surprised by any Legion patrols. The PFC, despite her tough words, is shaking and unable to even stand – there’s no way they can get her all the way to Forlorn Hope without getting spotted and overrun by a Legion patrol.  </p><p>The medic says, “We don’t even know if anyone else made it out. They caught most of them alive. Poor sods.”</p><p>Christ. They have to do something. The PFC lets go of Boone’s hand, and he stands up and dumps his pack. Six is still kneeling by the PFC; he looks up at Boone in question as Boone fishes a canteen out of his pack and squints up at the sky to get his bearings.</p><p>Boone explains shortly, “Even with us here, they can’t evacuate safely. I have the best chance of convincing them to send a squad, so I’ll run to Forlorn Hope for help. Give me your pistol.” </p><p>Six unholsters his pistol without comment and offers it over, grip-first. Boone accepts it and the two extra clips that follow, then holds out his rifle. At Six’s hesitant look, Boone thrusts it closer to him.</p><p>“They’ll listen to a 1st Recon guy over a civilian. You put those sniper skills to use.” Boone explains. Six frowns, but eventually accepts the rifle. </p><p>“Be careful out there.” he says seriously, eyes boring into Boone’s. Boone gives him a nod, then shoves the pistol into his belt and takes off. </p><p>Nelson hadn’t been around when Boone was still in the NCR, so he’s never traveled this road before. But he knows where Forlorn Hope is, and he estimates that if he pushes it, he can get there in an hour and a half. Another two and a half, maybe three, to get back with a squad, and he’s looking at leaving them alone for almost five hours. But it’s the best he can do. </p><p>Running through the desert is a stupid idea. The higher the sun gets into the sky, the more heat slithers up from the ground and wraps around him, trying to slow his steps. The cracked earth beneath his boots dips and swerves treacherously, hoping to trick him into stepping down wrong and breaking an ankle. He takes in a deep breath, tries to tap into that steady rhythm he’d learned in the NCR to keep his body in motion when it wanted to stop.</p><p>He doesn’t know if the Legion will send out patrols to mop up the survivors. Doesn’t know if he’ll run into one trying to get to Forlorn Hope or make it all the way back with reinforcements just to find a pile of corpses. But he can’t think about that, because he’s still weak from his extended drinking vacation and his injury, and it takes everything he has to keep going in the scorching heat. Every ounce of his awareness goes into watching for flashes of movement or red banners in the distance. He can feel the sweat running down the back of his neck and nearly sizzling off in the heat. The water left in his canteen disappears before he’s even halfway there.  </p><p>Somehow, he gets lucky. After what feels like hours and with no Legion sightings, he stumbles up to the front entrance of Forlorn Hope. His lungs feel like they’re filled with razor blades. Forcing himself to think, Boone tugs the beret off his head and waves it in the air to signal to the gate guards that he’s not a threat. One of the gate guards sights in on him while the other yells at him to stop. When he finally gets a chance to stand still, Boone can’t help but bend over and wheeze, grateful for a chance to return some oxygen to his screaming body.</p><p>“State your business.” a guard calls out. Boone takes one more deep breath against the protest of his aching lungs, straightens up as much as he can. </p><p>“I’m Sergeant Boone, from 1st Recon.” he calls out. He has to say it again, because the first time comes out garbled and weak. “There’s been an attack on Nelson and the survivors are stranded with no backup on the road in. I need a squad to accompany me back to Highway 165 for transport.” </p><p>They let him in, but it takes them more time than Boone had hoped to put together a squad. He has to wait for the reconnaissance team to verify his claim, then to verify his identity, and he expects somewhere a heated conversation is had about whether they can afford to send a squad into deadly territory for three soldiers. After two hours of waiting, he gets loaned a rifle and a squad of six other NCR soldiers, and they step out for Nelson.</p><p>It takes them over twice as long to get back to Highway 165 as it had taken for Boone to get to Forlorn Hope. He feels the uneasiness in his gut as they approach the highway. </p><p>He’d left Six out there with barely any backup and a rifle 7 hours ago. It had seemed like a better idea that sending Six out into the desert alone, but the truth is that Boone gets people killed no matter how careful he thinks he’s being. He should be ready to come back to a corpse. He should be ready to look into Six’s lifeless eyes. He’s not though, has never been able to stomach the consequences he brings on other people.</p><p>Boone should never have agreed to go anywhere with Six. He should have let Six walk off into the sunset, because if he’d never had anything more to do with Boone, this never would have happened.  </p><p>They start climbing the final hill before the highway. The whole squad, knowing that they might find Legionaries on the other side, is tense and silent. Near the top, they pause in place and wait impatiently as a scout crawls up to the peak of the hill and glances over. When the scout gives the sign for ‘all-clear’, Boone nearly jumps out of his own skin with anticipation. Only his training keeps him from breaking formation. </p><p>They crest the ridge. The scene before them is blanketed in twilight, the shadows making it hard to see the scene before them.</p><p>There are figures strewn across the ground in front of the sandbag barrier. The barrier itself is half-demolished, sand and pieces of canvas strewn across the asphalt. But then a figure raises its rifle and signals to them. It’s wearing an NCR uniform. Slowly, they make their way down to the barrier.</p><p>Boone sees a familiar tan figure slumped up against the sandbags with a sniper rifle propped up against his shoulder. He can’t tell if Six is breathing. What if he’s not breathing? Six’s face looks wan, and his eyes are closed, his body motionless.</p><p>There is a frenzy of activity as the squad disburses to take charge of the situation. Two take point to watch each side of the road. The medic the squad had brought with them moves immediately to the PFC with the gunshot wound and starts prepping her for transport. Boone, free to move now that they’re not in formation, beelines straight for Six. </p><p>And is overwhelmingly relieved when Six’s eyes open at his approach. He’s dusty, sweaty, and streaked with blood, but alive. Tiredly, he glances up at Boone and raises a hand in greeting. </p><p>“Took you long enough.” he says, eyes blinking tiredly. Yeah, Boone deserves that. Looking him over, Six appears to be pretty much in one piece. Boone offers him a hand up; when he pulls Six to standing, the man nearly topples over and collapses again from exhaustion and Bone has to catch him. Swaying, Six grips Boone around the shoulders, his face mashed into Boone’s neck, then slowly rocks back and manages to stay standing of his own volition. </p><p>“Sorry. Dehydrated. Been too busy killing Legionaries.” he says, shaking his head. Wordlessly, Boone pulls his canteen from his belt and offers it over. Six takes it and drains the whole thing in one long pull. Then he wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and gives Boone a real smile. Jerks his head towards the bodies littering the asphalt in front of the sandbags. </p><p>“Your lessons really paid off. A little intense for a first test, though. Let’s just hang some Legion armor on some dummies next time.” </p><p>Boone accepts the canteen and his sniper rifle back, offers the loaned pistol in exchange. “Would be a letdown after all this excitement.” </p><p>“Is this you excited? You’re an easy man to please, Craig Boone.” Woozily, Six stuffs his pistol back into its holster, and they turn to business. </p><p>By the time the squad gets back to Forlorn Hope, it’s well past dark, and all of them are exhausted. They’d all taken turns carrying the stretcher with the wounded PFC on it, which was near impossible over the hills and dips of the Mojave. On top of that, they’re all so strung out by the constant adrenaline-fueled search for Legionary patrols that Boone and Six can barely keep their eyes open once the danger is past. Luckily, they only have to give a brief explanation before they’re pointed to a pair of empty cots in the corner of a tent. Six flops down onto his in full armour and is snoring before five minutes are up. Boone follows suit and is wearily grateful to find that sleep visits him quickly too. </p><p>--</p><p>
  <em>“This is your fault.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gritting his teeth, Boone presses the stained bandage down harder. The gaping wound pulses a fresh spurt of blood across his fingers. He looks up to accusatory eyes in a pallid green-gray face. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You knew this would happen.” Six says, as Boone scrambles to find more gauze to cover the wound. There is nothing. Boone shifts the bandage in his hand and catches a glimpse of the inside of Six’s stomach - violently red and glistening intestines, twitching grotesquely as he watches. The scent of death and rot snakes through the air. “You knew what would happen if you came with me. You knew I would die, and you did it anyway. Selfish.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Stay still. You’re going to be okay. Just focus on breathing.” Boone says desperately. The smell is making him sick to his stomach, as is the slick scarlet of his hands. “You’re going to make it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Six’s laugh is short and cruel. “You know I won’t. I’m dying, Boone. My death is going to be your fault. Just like those soldiers. Just like Carla’s. Just like all those innocent Khans. And you can’t even do the right thing and kill yourself. You selfish son of a bitch.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Boone looks down and suddenly, the belly he presses his hands against is round and taut. Something kicks against the bandages weakly. Boone looks up into Carla’s waxy face, hopeful, but her eyes are blank and unseeing. Boone lifts the bandage - and stumbles backwards, shutting his eyes against the horror he finds there. It doesn’t help. The baby lets out an endless wail, plaintive and haunting. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>--</em>
</p><p>Gasping, Boone jerks awake - and falls into a heap on the floor. Rather than getting up, he just lays there and stares at the ceiling, trying to swallow down the taste of blood in his mouth. When he blinks, the dream flashes against his eyelids. Boone groans and rubs a grimy hand over his face. He doesn’t normally have nightmares when someone else is here.</p><p>Something above and to the left of him shifts. Six’s sleepy face appears over the edge of the cot, frowning down at him uncomprehendingly. His lips are chapped from dehydration and red in one spot where the skin is split. The color turns Boone’s stomach. </p><p>“Why are you on the floor?” Six asks. Boone doesn’t even try to answer.</p><p> Yawning, Six sits up slowly and mashes the heel of his hand into one brown eye. After a moment, Boone steels himself and does the same. Then he pushes to his feet and goes outside. </p><p>The shaking in his hands lasts through the first cigarette and halfway through the second. The burn of the nicotine takes forever to cut through the haze. Even then, Boone isn’t sure the grittiness in his eyes or the ache in his legs is any better. The smoke sears his abused lungs and nearly doubles him over in a drawn-out coughing fit. </p><p>He doesn’t know when they’d gone to bed, but it’s now well past sunrise, probably seven or eight in the morning. The camp is already alive with the sounds of marching soldiers, the call of cadence, the popping of a gun range in use. The scent of the chow hall drifts to him from somewhere. A private, hurrying by, catches Boone’s eye and nods respectfully. </p><p>Christ. He needs a drink. Needs to fall face-first in a vat of whiskey. He wants to lay down and sleep, dreamless, forever. He wants to close his eyes without seeing someone’s corpse on the back of his eyelids. </p><p>It doesn’t matter what he wants. This is what he deserves. Boone crushes out his cigarette stub, pockets it, and goes back into the tent. </p><p>It’s been twenty minutes and Six has only graduated from lying down to sitting, dazed, on the edge of his cot. He has one boot off, bare foot dangling in the air, and a fresh pair of socks in his hands, but appears to be struggling to finish the task. Six isn’t much of a morning person. Boone isn’t either, but he’s spent so much of his life rolling out of bed and into motion at the sounds of Reveille that he couldn’t change now if he wanted to. </p><p>Six jolts at Boone’s presence, looks down at the socks in his hand, and begins to tug one on with clumsy movements. Boone heaves his pack up onto his cot and digs through for a change of skivvies. He’s in desperate need of a shower, or at least a wipe-down, but that can wait until they’ve gotten their bearings. </p><p>“That cot was the best sleep of my life. I’ll never be able to recreate it.” Six says, patting it fondly. “And I bet the coffee I’m about to get at breakfast will be the best coffee I’ve ever had too.” </p><p>Boone yanks his sweat-stained t-shirt over his head and replaces it with a fresh one. He’s still only half-present, trying to push those images out of his mind. “Don’t count on it.” </p><p>His tone must be harsher than usual, because Six pauses and glances up at him, then drops the subject. Boone immediately regrets his comment - he’s not much of a talker, but he doesn’t mind so much when Six fills up the quiet with chatter. Now there’s just uncomfortable silence. </p><p>A corporal comes to find them in the chow hall as Six is wolfing down a plate of powdered eggs and toast and Boone is eating his own mechanically. The corporal looks as haggard around the edges as everyone else at Forlorn Hope does. </p><p>“The Major wants to see you, Sergeant. He’s in the command tent. Said to come as soon as you’re done with chow.” the corporal says. Boone nods, and the corporal hurries off. </p><p>Boone had never worked with Major Polatli, but he knows what he looks like. He and Six wait patiently to one side of the command tent as the mustachioed man finishes up a meeting with several other officers. The Major looks up, spots them, and waves them over. He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries.</p><p>“I don’t know what I did to get blessed with a decorated 1st Recon soldier right in the middle of this shitshow, but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you’re up to it, we could use your help again. We need to retake Nelson.” </p><p>Six looks startled. “You mean the base that’s <em>literally overrun </em>with Legionaries? You’re not in any condition to take them on!” </p><p> Major Polatli’s mustache bristles. “We have our best analysts on the job, and they believe that with the right strategy, we can retake the base and minimize our losses. Having the Legion control an NCR stronghold so close to our other bases, especially with those crucified soldiers on display for God and everyone else to see, is bad both for morale and strategy.” His next words are to Boone specifically. “But it’s up to you, son. With what happened at Bitter Springs, we don’t have any right to ask any more of you.” </p><p>The major’s dark eyes settle on Boone’s face, his look solemn and knowing. Boone feels something in the back of his mind go ominously quiet. His brain doesn’t know which part of Polatli’s words to jump to. Then a hand settles on his shoulder, light but firm, and Boone lets out a breath. </p><p>“What do you think? It’s up to you.” Six says lowly, looking at Boone. Boone feels the paralysis of indecision settle into his limbs and freeze his throat. But, because he knows he has to, he lifts his chin and nods once, jerkily. Six’s hand squeezes and drops away from his shoulder. </p><p>Polatli returns the nod and turns away towards the map on the table in the middle of the tent. Like any good commander, he has the decency to accept Boone’s answer without commenting on his hesitation. Instead, he scans the map and then taps one of the neat black x’s drawn on it with a finger. </p><p>“Meet Sergeant Cooper here, just outside Nelson. He’ll be spearheading the charge. Dismissed.” </p><p>Boone turns on his heel automatically and leaves the tent. Six follows. </p><p>The both of them are tired from dehydration and lack of rest, but they don’t waste any time getting ready and striking out for the rendezvous spot with Sergeant Cooper. Through the trip, Six glances at Boone every few minutes, looking like he wants to ask something, but never does. Boone doesn’t offer up any information. If he moves his attention from what’s coming, he’ll lose his nerve, or screw something up. He can’t afford to be divided in his attentions when people’s lives are at stake. Maybe Six gets it, or maybe he doesn’t, but he doesn’t push. </p><p>They set a fast clip and catch sight of Sergeant Cooper’s squad exactly where the Major had said they would be. The sergeant, a young woman with clear goggles over her eyes and a shemagh pulled up over her mouth, motions them over and gives them a quick run-down. </p><p>“We’re attacking from the north, but we have units up on the ridge to the east and coming in the other entry points as well. Our focus is on taking out the leader, Dead Sea. We’ve also heard there are NCR hostages somewhere in the camp.” the sergeant’s eyes meet Boone’s. “As our sniper, you’re responsible for taking care of them if you can get a bead on them.”</p><p>Six opens his mouth, outraged, but the sergeant turns away before he can say anything and waves them into motion. He and Six make their way quietly up the nearest ridge to a good vantage point, where they can cover the assault. Six is cradling his own sniper rifle, a loan like the one Boone had carried the day before. They settle down onto the ground and sight in. </p><p>Boone doesn’t mind going up close and dirty with a pack of Legionaries, but this is his favourite way to fight. He’s the quiet, slow-thinking type. Behind the scope of a sniper rifle, Boone has the time he needs to make his decisions, the quiet to surround himself in and internalize. He can search out the stillness in the chaos of battle. And most importantly, he can lose himself in the space between breaths, when the whole world narrows to the slow steady contraction of his index finger on the trigger. Nothing more. Just one shot, one kill. </p><p><em>Bang. </em>A Legionary falls to the dirt. A surprise, to see the effects of his work. He ejects the spent round and chambers another. It’s a bit faster, working in the middle of a firefight, but not undoable. Just a little extra challenge. The crosshairs of his scope settle in on another leather-covered torso. </p><p>
  <em>Bang. </em>
</p><p>“Boone.” Six says quietly, pulling him from his rhythm. Boone looks over to him. Six’s face is pinched and unhappy. </p><p>“You see them? Right in the middle, there?” </p><p>Boone settles back down and sweeps the area with his scope. The battle has started in earnest now. He spots what Six is talking about immediately and feels every shred of calm in his chest dissipate. </p><p>It’s too damn easy to make out the details of the NCR hostages -  their downturned heads, the blood trickling from their pierced hands, the bleached wood of the crosses. The Legionaries work day and night to put those damned things up, knowing how bad they shake the rest of the soldiers. The soldiers have been stripped to their undershirts and trousers, their feet bare and resting on a support nailed into the crosses. As Boone watches, one of them blinks slowly and tries to lift his head, but it’s clearly too much effort in his weakened state.</p><p>He’s seen this so many times. It never gets easier. He tries not to look at their faces, doesn’t want them in his dreams, but a headshot is the easiest and most humane way to kill them. So he has to. He has to look. </p><p>Something blacks out his scope and pulls the barrel off to the side. Boone curses and jolts backwards, but it’s not an enemy; just Six, scowling at him. The way his sweat has trickled through the dust on his face makes it look like war paint.  </p><p>“You don’t have to do this, Boone.” Six says lowly. “You’re not part of the NCR anymore. You can make a choice.” </p><p>“Let go.” Boone says. Six doesn’t. Boone feels a strange kind of panic bubble up in the back of his throat. “Six. <em>Let go.” </em></p><p>“No.” Six says. Quietly. Firmly. “Listen to me. You can go down there and save those hostages. I’m not saying this because what you did before was wrong. But if you want to, you can make that choice.” </p><p>“There isn’t a goddamn choice.” Boone snaps, curling his hand into a fist. “They’re <em>going to die, </em>Six. We can’t save them. The best thing to do is put them out of their misery. It’s what they would want.” </p><p>Abruptly, Six stands up, slings his rifle across his back, and pulls his pistol instead. </p><p>“Try to shoot the Legionaries and not me while I’m down there, alright? I’ll know it was on purpose, Mr. Crack Shot.” Six flashes him a strange smile and disappears down the side of the ridge, towards Nelson. </p><p>He’s going to try to save the hostages. Six is going to get himself killed trying to save the goddamn hostages. Six’s bloody face from the dream flashes through his head. </p><p>Boone could take them all out before Six even gets close. He should. They’re suffering. If it were Boone up there, he’d want someone to show him mercy and let him die. And then Six wouldn’t charge recklessly through the battle, and he might not die. </p><p>With an angry sound, Boone slams one hand into the dirt, then settles back into position. He can clear the way, so Six can get to them safely. He sees a legionnaire peek around a corner just by the entrance to the camp, waiting for an unsuspecting idiot in leather armor to come charging in. </p><p>Boone inhales, exhales, and pulls the trigger.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 7 warnings: Boone has several depressive thoughts about getting people killed. Depiction of someone getting a bullet wound treated. Boone has a graphic nightmare about Six, Carla, and Carla's unborn baby dying. Boone has thoughts relating to his alcoholism. There's a canon compliant depiction of the NCR hostages the Legion crucified at Fort Nelson.</p><p>The cursing PFC with the leg wound in this chapter is so far my favourite character.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time disappears in the heat of battle. When he finally lifts his head up from the sight and comes back into himself, it snaps back into place. Only an hour has passed. Strange, how little time a battle takes.  By the time Boone has packed up hastily and scrambled down to the camp, Sergeant Cooper is dividing up his unit to clear the buildings. Boone ignores them, feels that he’s intentionally ignored in turn, and makes his way carefully through the wreckage and the bodies to the center of the camp. He’d checked before coming down, is pretty sure what he’s going to find, but there’s always a chance something could go wrong. </p><p>He can’t relax until he lays eyes on Six, alive and kicking. The man is holding onto the bottom of a rusty ladder, stabilizing it while a medic on the top rung carefully tips a bottle of water to the lips of one of the hostages. The man is a mess, his exposed flesh red and cracking with sunburn, his face haggard from being exposed to the elements. But he lifts his face to the water and gulps it down anyway. He’s alive. </p><p>“Boone. Hey. <em>Hey. </em>We need another ladder.” Six calls to him, finally dragging Boone’s attention away from the hostage. “So we can get them down. Can you find one?” </p><p>Boone nods, glances at the hostage one more time (Alive. <em>Alive.) </em>and jogs off to find a maintenance shed or something. He comes back a few minutes later with another battered steel ladder, and they get to work. </p><p>Boone’s done this part before - taking down the bodies - but they’d always been dead before. The care they’d taken in removing the nails and lowering the corpse was only ever because the dead deserve respect, not because they need the gentle treatment. But now, Boone waits at the bottom of the ladder as the medic carefully but skillfully removes the nails, while Six wraps his arms around the hostage’s torso and keeps him from falling until the job is done. Then the soldier is being carefully passed down to Boone, and his arms are full of heaving, trembling life, weak as a kitten and burning like a furnace. The soldier cries out in pain as Boone scrapes his overheated skin. Apologizing, Boone carries the man over to one of the stretchers they’d laid out as quick and smoothly as he can. Boone arranges a lightweight blanket over him to protect from further sun damage and fleetingly lays a hand on his chest. It trembles and kicks, the man’s heart beating frantically like a small bird. Still. It beats. </p><p>They repeat the process a half-dozen more times before all the hostages are brought down. Only a few of them are still conscious. One is already dead. But he doesn’t have much time to reflect on it, because they only have the one medic to spare, so Six and Boone have to pick up the slack. They carry the soldiers one by one to a hastily prepped and cleaned medical tent, then start an endless rotation of holding supplies, applying burn salve, and clumsily cleaning wounds. </p><p>By nightfall, all the patients are taken care of. Nothing is left but to check their progress and let them heal, so the medic orders them out gruffly. Boone stops once more by the cot of the first man they’d pulled down and is surprised to see he’s still awake. None of them can speak yet, too weak from their ordeal, but the soldier turns his eyes to Boone and looks at him for a long moment. Then he blinks, sleepy and slow, and drifts into sleep. </p><p>Boone turns from the cot and follows Six out into the cool night air. </p><p>The air outside is a strange mix of solemn and merry. They’d lost good men and women taking back Nelson; soldiers are still searching the buildings, looking for survivors, corpses, or legionaries in hiding. But plenty more are already having raucous celebrations. Boone and Six endure several slaps on the back each, and a particularly drunken soldier shoves a bottle of whiskey into Boone’s hand. He takes a long look at it before passing it to the soldier’s buddy. </p><p>When Boone comes back with two tin plates full of chow for them, Six is poking at their campfire with a blackened branch. He is unsuccessful as ever at coaxing the flames bigger. Boone hands him a tin plate and takes the branch from Six to fix the fire. As he leans into Six’s space, he catches the sound of Six’s voice, humming something rhythmic and low. </p><p>“ ‘S hot. Give it a chance to cool down.” Boone cautions. Six cooperatively sets the plate down and holds his hands over the fire as it slowly grows under Boone’s ministrations. Six hums a few more bars of melody, then softly, he starts singing something. The words, whatever they are, sound nonsensical to Boone. Six’s voice is mellow and soothing, just barely carrying over the crackle of the fire. </p><p>Six stops singing after what sounds like the end of a verse and turns to his dinner. </p><p>"What was that?" Boone asks, after a minute. </p><p>Six chews up a mouthful of beans, swallows. </p><p>“Uh, it’s called a bird song. They’re not actually about birds. It’s a Hualapai thing.”</p><p>Six seems uncharacteristically embarrassed to talk about it. Boone wonders if it’s prying to ask more. Maybe it’s personal. Or maybe it would be weird not to ask. Boone doesn’t want Six to think he’s not interested. Being around other people so much again, having to take their feelings into account, is a goddamn ordeal.</p><p>“What are they about, then?” he asks finally. Six will tell him if he’s being invasive. He thinks.</p><p>“Mmm…” Six’s gaze grows distant staring into the fire. His hair is half yanked out of its braid, so it falls in dark threads across his face. “Depends. We say that after death, a person’s spirit is left to wander. So we have to sing the songs to help them find their way into the next world.”</p><p>“Hope you all have better voices than I do.” Boone quips. Six huffs amusedly, seeming to relax a little.</p><p>“Mine’s not especially great. My brother though, he was a really accomplished bird singer. My grandma always made a big fuss out of it.  She and my mom would dress up for the dances all the time – the women sometimes dance while the guys sing, it’s a whole big thing.”</p><p>Maybe it’s just Boone’s less than communal upbringing, but the idea of a whole extended family being that close sounds a little uncomfortable. People in your pocket all the time. Boone’s parents had died when he was young as a teenager, and he’d never been close to the aunt and uncle that took him in afterwards. It was a family duty thing more than any kind of affection that made them take him in, he figures.</p><p>Seems different for Six, though. He clearly craves a lot more interaction with other people than Boone does. And these memories mean a lot to him.  The look on his face is fond, but as Boone watches it slides into melancholy, and then into sorrow.</p><p>“It was weird waking up without them in Goodsprings.” Six says quietly. “Being all by myself. Strangers would just look past me in towns like I wasn’t even there. I started wondering if <em>I</em> was a lost spirit with nobody to guide me home.”</p><p>Huh. Strange to see how much that affects Six. Maybe it’s not just a good time Six is looking for with other people when he disappears at night. Maybe there’s some loneliness there too.</p><p>To try to lighten the subject, Boone says, “Must’ve been real pissed that I ignored you when we first met.” It’s a weak joke, but Six laughs anyway. His laugh is low and smooth like his singing.</p><p>"You were doing it to be an asshole, so it didn't bother me. I kind of liked it actually. Made me want to come bother you more." </p><p>"You like assholes?" Boone asks dubiously. He <em>had </em>thought it was weird that Six had showed up in the dinosaur again after Boone gave him the cold shoulder. He couldn’t figure out why Six was so interested in hi-</p><p>Oh. Boone remembers back to that night. Six lounging against the dinosaur, teeth flashing in an easy smile. <em>Oh. </em></p><p><em>"</em>You were trying to pick me up." Boone says, almost accusatorily. He can feel his cheeks go hot, hopes the firelight is too dim for Six to notice.</p><p>Six laughs louder this time, a big belly laugh with his head thrown back. Boone can’t believe he’d missed it. Six is suave, but his pickup lines are as obvious as a pair of boots on a night stalker. Boone should be ashamed of himself. </p><p>"I <em>was," </em>Six admits after he finally gets himself under control. "I was being as blatant as I knew how, and you didn't notice <em>any </em>of it. I thought you were just rejecting me. It about broke my heart." </p><p>Boone's cheeks heat further. He leans back furtively from the fire in hopes the extra shadows will give him some cover. A man shouldn't be so damn easy to embarrass. </p><p>" 'S not something I deal with that often." He grumbles back. Even he can hear the sulk in his voice. Six, hitting on him? No way to make heads or tails of that. </p><p>"Are you serious?” Six leans forward, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and dismay. “Boone, people look at you literally everywhere you go. That glare of yours keeps them away, but it makes them look more, too. Do you really not notice that?”  </p><p>Boone is ready to die of embarrassment. Anyway, nobody'd be looking at him with Six right there to look at instead. Six clearly has lingering brain damage from that gunshot. Boone almost says as much, but he doesn’t know if they’re at the right level for that kind of joke. </p><p>"I think it's time to hit the rack. I’ll go scrub the plates down.” he says instead, trying not to sound flustered. He doesn’t know if he fails, and that’s why Six gives him that amused, knowing look, or if Six is just keeping up the teasing because that’s the kind of person he is. Either way, Six lets the subject go with good grace, and Boone snatches up their plates so he can disappear before Six says anything else to fluster him.</p><p>He heads over to the washing station by the chow hall, a short row of tables set up with trash bags, tubs of dishwater, rinse water, and drying racks. Are people looking at him? Boone feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing up under the weight of an imaginary gaze. When he reaches distractedly for one of the scrub brushes, he accidentally knocks hands with another soldier reaching for the same one. The sergeant glances up at him, apologizes. Normally Boone would just ignore something like that, but when he looks back up at her in the middle of scrubbing down his plate, he catches her staring at him. She quickly drops her eyes back to the cup in her hand. </p><p><em>Christ. </em>Six was right. Boone is pretty sure his blood pressure just hit a high that it will never again come down from. He hurriedly dunks the plates in the rinse bin and shoves them into the drying rack, just barely keeps himself from literally running away from the washing station. </p><p>--</p><p>The thought that Six was hitting on him when they first met reoccurs at the most random of intervals after that. </p><p>Is Six <em>still </em>hitting on him? </p><p>...does Boone <em>want </em>Six to hit on him? </p><p>He doesn’t know the answer to that. But he thinks about it. </p><p>--</p><p>The leadership at Nelson, always willing to take advantage of a good thing, ask Six and Boone to bring their report back to McCarran. They head out in the early twilight hours on the heels of a Crimson Caravan procession, Six stumbling over his own feet tiredly while Boone admires the sunrise as it peeks over the horizon. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah. It’s beautiful. Rather be watching it knowing I’m about to hit the hay.” Six grumbles half-heartedly when he sees what Boone is looking at. </p><p>“If you weren’t out until all hours of the night, it wouldn’t be so difficult for you.” Boon reminds him. Six had disappeared last night with a red-headed corporal. Though to give him credit, he truly hadn’t been out that late at all - Boone knows, because he’d kept himself awake until Six’s return. The nightmares are less when Six is around, and Boone doesn’t want Six walking in on him in the middle of one. Who knows what might come out of his mouth. </p><p>“It was worth it, though.” Six says with a satisfied smile. “I hope I see <em>her </em>again.” </p><p>“Keep it in your pants.” Boone retorts. “Be an uncomfortable walk back to McCarran for you otherwise.”</p><p>The long walk and a few days between him and his suicide attempt gives him a chance to ponder his situation a little bit. It feels like they should talk about it. But he doesn’t know how to bring it up. Doesn’t know if he should. Six doesn’t bring it up either, though Boone can’t imagine it’s any easier to start that conversation from the other side.</p><p>Things aren’t <em>easy </em>by any stretch, but they are…better. He’s being useful again. The things he’s doing mean something to somebody. Boone was never one to sit around and mope before; now that he’s back on track, he can’t figure how he’d fallen into that state for so long. Still, he’s wary of falling too far into this feeling of easiness, because he doesn’t know how long it’ll last.</p><p>The other shoe could drop at any time. He wonders vaguely what it’ll be when it happens. But it’s hard to think too hard about it right now, with the cool morning air brushing against his face and the quiet shuffling of a caravan the only sound in his ears. </p><p>They make good time back to McCarran, stopping to camp near the Boulder City ruins and heading out early again the next morning. When they finally catch sight of the front entrance to McCarran, Six catches Boone’s shoulder and pulls him to a stop. </p><p>“The Followers asked me to drop by the next time I’m in the area.” Six tells him. “You don’t need me there to speak to Colonel Hsu, do you?”</p><p>Boone studies him carefully. “Suppose not.” he says after a moment. </p><p>Six catches the tension in his voice as if it was plain as mud and gives Boone a reassuring smile. “It’s not anything to worry about. Julie Farkas told me she needed some help if I have time. I ran some errands for her while you were recovering from that bullet wound. And I want to check on Arcade, make sure he made it back all right after we parted ways in Novac.” </p><p>Boone supposes that Six can’t get in much trouble with the Followers. As factions go, they’re as harmless as flies. He nods once, and Six claps him on the shoulder in approval. </p><p>“You get done early, meet me there. Otherwise I’ll find you in McCarran.” </p><p>When Boone knocks on Colonel Hsu’s door and gets a curt ‘come in’, he finds the colonel at his desk, surrounded by mountains of paperwork. The colonel looks as put-together as ever, radiating ease and confidence as he finishes filling out the sheet he’s writing on and snaps the folder shut. When he turns his attention on Boone, he turns it on fully; Hsu is not one to divide his attention, nor to make the soldiers in his command feel that he’s too important to listen to them. It’s one of the many reasons Boone respects him as much as he does. </p><p>“At ease. Take a seat, Sergeant Boone.” </p><p>Boone takes the seat gratefully; two days on the road have left his feet weary. Hsu stands up and crosses to a dinged kettle in the corner of the room. Boone’s disappointed to see that the cup he’s handed is tea and not coffee, but it’s still hot and strong and it feels nice to sip it as the colonel seats himself.</p><p>“Prefer it with a splash of sugar myself, but supplies are limited these days. You have news of Nelson?” Hsu asks. </p><p>Turning to business, Boone sets down the tea and pulls out the reports that the Nelson leadership had bundled up for him to deliver. Hsu accepts them, glancing over the first page, but quickly turns his attention back to Boone. </p><p>“We came up on a squad from Nelson holding their position on the road, sir. When they told us Nelson had been taken and they hadn’t gotten word back out about the attack, I ran back to Forlorn Hope to inform the command there and they sent a retrieval team with me to recover the squad. </p><p>“After that, Major Polatli called me in to ask if I and my partner would help re-take Nelson. We agreed, and the operation was a success. When we left, Nelson was well on its way to re-establishing itself.” </p><p>Hsu hums thoughtfully in reply. </p><p>“That’s good news. We need Nelson to hold the line. Though truth be told, it also leaves Nelson in a precarious position. The Legion will be looking to take back that land and expand their reach towards our other bases. Now that they’re well-established in Cottonwood Cove, they have a good logistical position to do that.” </p><p>“Will the NCR push further east, sir?” Boone asks. Hsu gives him a level look. </p><p>“I’ll be honest with you, Sergeant Boone. As much as I’d like to see that happen, we may not be in a position to do so. We’re strapped for resources, and New Vegas drains us down more every day. We need time to establish ourselves. If we over-exert, we’ll collapse.” </p><p>Boone doesn’t say the thing he’s pretty sure he and Hsu agree on - that the NCR should stop funneling resources into New Vegas. The Strip just sucks it up like a sponge in water and gives nothing back. It’s not even just NCR resources - it’s the pay that goes into the soldier’s pockets, too, because they gamble it away on the strip or Sink it into booze and Gomorrah prostitutes, and that money never appears outside the Strip again. Then it leaves droves of broke, starving citizens in Freeside that mob NCR soldiers and Camp McCarran’s gates, or steal resources and force the NCR to spend manpower on guards and firewatches. But the official NCR position is support of the Strip. Hsu can’t express any opinion contrary to that, and Boone won’t ask him to. He can read between the lines. </p><p>Hsu sips his tea levelly. Boone isn’t fooled by the calm facade. The NCR is hurting. They can’t keep protecting themselves from an assault on all sides for long. Boone knows the relative quiet from the Legion makes Hsu uneasy - it can’t be anything more than planning for a major assault, and who knows when that will come. It had been hard enough to take Nelson back from the relatively small band of Legionaries that had annexed it, with all the soldiers weary from constant patrolling and fighting. </p><p>Boone doesn’t want to think what will happen if the Legion wins. </p><p>Hsu says, “Tell me about this partner of yours, Sergeant Boone. Major Dhatri speaks highly of the work you two have done against the Fiends.”</p><p>Boone starts; he hadn’t thought Six to have made a big enough splash for the NCR to be interested in him. </p><p>“He was a courier before, sir. Shot and left for dead near Goodsprings, but somehow he survived. We met in Novac.” </p><p>“I’d heard about that.” Hsu says musingly. “And I heard that besides helping at Nelson, he successfully negotiated a hostage situation in Boulder City as well. Yes, Sergeant Boone, Lieutenant Monroe told me. That man is honest to a fault, always has been. He got a slap on the hand, but nothing career-damaging. It sounds like your partner has something of a skill for negotiating, is that right?” </p><p>Boone makes a noise of agreement. Negotiation sounds a bit better than manipulation.</p><p>“It can sometimes be useful to have some avenues outside official NCR channels. I hope the two of you will continue to help out where you can.” The Colonel finishes off the last of his drink and slaps the desk lightly. “Well, Sergeant, I’m sure you have plenty of things to attend to, so I won’t keep you. And here - for your work at Nelson and getting these reports here to me. You’ve earned it. Dismissed.” </p><p>It feels strange to accept money directly from the Colonel. Normally pay is done through the accounting office, just a bored Staff Sergeant passing out envelopes every few weeks. Boone accepts the envelope, finishes off his coffee, and heads for the door. </p><p>Six isn’t back yet by the time he finishes up his chow, so Boone heads for the Follower’s Camp. He’s not entirely certain Six didn’t just run off without him again. Boone ducks his head into a few tents and runs into a different familiar face instead. </p><p><em>Literally </em>runs into him. </p><p>Gannon just barely manages to keep hold of the tray of vials he’s carrying. Boone has to grab him by the front of the lab coat just to keep the doctor from falling on his ass, though. Boone lets go as soon as the doctor finds his feet and watches him adjust his glasses exasperatedly. </p><p>“You’re the second person to bowl me over today. I need a better way to transport these vials, or we’re going to end up inoculating the entire underground animal population of the Mojave before we finish the human residents.”</p><p>“Sorry.” Boone says. He tries to actually sound sorry, doesn’t know if he manages. Wonders if Gannon drops big words into a conversation just to be an asshole.  “Looking for Six. You seen him?” </p><p>“Ah. He was here earlier, yes. I believe Julie asked him to go to Freeside for something. It is a bit strange that he’s not back yet.” Arcade waves Boone aside with an impatient hand so he can enter the tent Boone was just poking his head into. Boone follows him in, watches him carefully set down the tray of vials and start filling out a label for the tray. “Will you wait five minutes? I can accompany you. I imagine I’m a little more familiar with Freeside than you are.” </p><p>“You’d imagine right.” Boone says, leaning up against one of the tent poles to wait. </p><p>It turns out that Gannon is just as chatty as Six, but in a different way. Six has an air of easiness around him. Gannon is more nervous in silence, feels the need to fill it up. Boone wonders whether they actually listen to each other when they have a conversation, or if they just talk over each other until one of them gets tired. </p><p>He also carries a plasma pistol. That’s strange in and of itself, but the fact that he also tries to hide it under his lab coat like Boone won’t notice is stranger. Boone wonders if he has a hook-up with the Graffs at Silver Rush. No other way a Follower could afford a piece like that.</p><p>“Owe you an apology.” Boone says when they’re about halfway to Freeside, cutting Gannon off in the middle of a speech about the history of some building. The statement seems to take Gannon off guard, though he recovers quickly. </p><p>“Ah - yes, actually, you do. I’m glad to see you realize that.” Gannon pauses for a moment. “Apology accepted, is what I mean. It’s not as if you were the worst patient I’ve ever had, anyway. And how are you and Six now? Resolved your differences?” </p><p>“Something like that.” </p><p>Gannon gives him a sideways look. Boone returns the look directly. He’s expecting another lecture, but Gannon doesn’t give him one, surprisingly. </p><p>“He’s, ah, a charismatic man, isn’t he? Difficult not to like him, I mean.” </p><p>Gannon’s voice is suddenly artificially light, artificial enough that even Boone can pick up on it. The tips of his ears are going red, and not just because of the sun overhead.</p><p>Great. Another fool half in love with his partner. </p><p>“Six is attracted to men.” Boone says, so he doesn’t have to listen to Gannon pussyfoot around the subject anymore. </p><p>“Oh. Well. That’s - that’s interesting.” Gannon replies awkwardly. It clearly catches him off guard; his ears get even more red. “So, then, are the two of you…?” </p><p>That catches <em>Boone </em>off guard in turn. He wouldn’t expect anyone to come to <em>that </em>conclusion. He and Six are too different for something like that to happen. </p><p>“No.” he says shortly. “Where exactly in Freeside should we look for him?” </p><p>Gannon accepts the change in subject with some relief and redirects his attention to the street in front of them. “Julie said she asked him to look into finding us a steady supplier for medical supplies. Perhaps Mick and Ralph’s?” </p><p>They find that Six has been all over Freeside, but they’re always about twenty minutes behind catching him. Boone sees more of Freeside than he ever has before in that hour or so that they walk around, even having been stationed at McCarran. They’re headed to the Atomic Wrangler when he catches sight of a group of children chasing after a rat. One of the children is brandishing a knife. </p><p>“Place is a dump.” he remarks, watching the kids. Their faces are gaunt, gaunter than a kid’s should be. </p><p>“Well, it’s no New Vegas, that’s for certain.” Arcade says, following Boone’s gaze to the kids. “Without the Followers around, it would be much worse.” </p><p>“And the NCR.” Boone adds. Gannon’s sarcastic huff catches his attention, and he looks back to the man with a raised eyebrow. </p><p>“You and I both know the NCR’s interest here is purely strategic. They’ve got beggars at their doorstep just as New Vegas does, and they give out exactly the same amount of aid - none.” </p><p>Boone frowns. “This place was a wasteland before the NCR moved in. There wouldn’t be a Followers branch out here if the NCR wasn’t making it safe enough to settle.” </p><p>Gannon’s tone is dismissive. “You can’t eat safety, Sergeant Boone. These people are starving.” </p><p>“You can’t wear food as armor either. The NCR is doing the best it can.” Boone turns his back to Gannon, marches away. He’s not going to get into an argument over this. He hears Gannon make a frustrated noise behind him, the sound of hurried footsteps trying to catch up. </p><p>As if Boone doesn’t know well that people are starving. He’s bunked down in plenty of small towns full of people scraping to get by, handed plenty of plates of food away and went hungry himself. He and the other guys used to keep candy on hand, when they could get it, to give away to the kids. Once, he’d nearly passed out on a march because he hadn’t eaten the night before. His squad leader had called him a moron, asked him what exactly people would do if he was too weak to lift his gun to defend them. But it was damn hard, to listen to them plead like that. Boone tried, but he never could quite close his ears. </p><p>Anyway, it’s not as if the NCR is responsible. It was House that drove all these people into Freeside, when he set up New Vegas and locked the gates to anyone who couldn’t pay for Vegas’s little ‘passport’ service. The cash flow into Vegas was a one-way street. So the rich gambled away their pocket money in luxury on the Strip, while a hundred yards away men and women bedded down on cardboard boxes and children chased rats down the street. </p><p>They finally find Six, of all places, stumbling down the street and holding up a man that looks half-dead. The man’s face is puffy and flushed; his eyes are sunken in and ringed with deep circles. Six catches sight of them and jerks his head, summoning them over. </p><p>“Give me a hand here?” he says to Boone, nodding towards the man. Boone grabs the other man’s arm and throws it around his shoulders. A wave of stench smacks him across the face; for a moment, he’s back in his motel room in Novac, rolling away from the pool of vomit he’d just made and wondering where his whiskey went.</p><p>“Just a bit further, Bill.” Six says doggedly. It is not just a bit further. Still, with the two of them together, they can pick up the pace a bit. </p><p>“Need a drink. Let’s stop and get a drink.” Bill slurs. Boone grits his teeth. </p><p>“We’re going to get you fixed up, Bill. Just got to get to the Followers, and we’ll have everything set up for you.” Six assures him. </p><p>Christ, had Boone been this pathetic? </p><p>It’s strange - the man is repellant, but at the same time Boone feels an overwhelming <em>need </em>just as strong as he’d felt in his days in Novac. Just smelling the alcohol pouring off the man makes his mouth go dry. He’d been a fool to think he could just pick up and leave off the kind of man he’d been in Novac without some kind of urge to relapse - well, here it is staring him in the face, and it’s making him break out in a cold sweat. He focuses on staring straight forward, one step in front of the next, and does <em>not </em>think about needing a drink. </p><p>It’s a slow trek back to the Old Mormon Fort, but they make it eventually. Farkas takes one look at the man and takes over, ushering him (hopefully) straight to the showers. Boone watches him go, wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. </p><p>“Well, that was the least fun I’ve had in a while.” Gannon announces, though he’d done nothing but follow them back. “I suppose that was part of Julie’s request to you?” </p><p>“Yeah, she said Bill normally takes care of the water pump in Freeside.” Six is looking sideways at Boone, and Boone doesn’t particularly like it. He hopes his sunglasses do a good job of hiding his expression. “She hoped if she could get him sobered up, he’d be able to maintain it again.” </p><p>“A monumental task, but Julie has worked larger miracles, I assure you. Will you be staying in Freeside long?” </p><p>Six looks back at Arcade with a genuine smile. Arcade returns it in a way that manages to be both pleased and nervous at the same time. Boone knows what it’s like to be at the end of that smile, would feel a little pity for Arcade if he wasn’t still trying to get himself under control. Still, he sees what Arcade is angling for, and he’s nothing if not a wingman. </p><p>“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead in a ditch.” Boone says to Six curtly. “Things went fine with Hsu. I’ll catch you up later.”</p><p>“Oh.” Six replies, seeming a bit taken back with Boone’s shortness. “Should we head back to McCarran?”</p><p>Boone resents the careful way he says it, how he invokes the ‘we’ as if Boone needs to be - to be <em>babysat, </em>of all things. He is not a child that needs supervision when he’s having a hard time. </p><p>“No. You finish up here. I’ll see you later.” he says, managing to sound a little bit less blunt. He gives Gannon a look - <em>this is for you, </em>it says - and turns his back on the both of them.</p><p>Not being able to have a drink makes him need a drink. Christ.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 8 warnings: Some non-graphic description of the crucified NCR soldiers being taken off crosses and treated for injuries. Boone encounters a man actively suffering from alcoholism and has a strong urge to relapse.</p><p>I'm attempting not to info dump too much in the story about the Hualapai as a people, but I encourage anyone who's interested to read more about them. Six's background and history will factor in more and more in subsequent chapters, so you'll get information as it becomes relevant.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay. I wrote and re-wrote this chapter a million times.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s past dark when Boone makes it back to McCarran. Most of the soldiers are already eating chow, so he follows their lead and gets himself a plate. Six isn’t back by the time he finishes.</p><p>He’s been mostly fine since he left Novac. Well, really he’s just been unable to think about anything but what’s right in front of him. Now he can’t think about anything but what’s <em>not </em>right in front of him. No whiskey. No beer. He can spot at least three people from his vantage point outside his and Six’s tent that have a drink in their hands. The commissary isn’t that far away. He could be there and back in ten minutes.</p><p>He tries to light a cigarette and finds his hands are trembling. He drops one match, burns himself with the next, but finally the tip of the cigarette catches.</p><p>Betsy finds him in the middle of his third in a row. She looks…. Not much better than he feels, to be honest. The circles under her eyes are darker and deeper than usual. But she doesn’t say anything about it at first, so Boone doesn’t bring it up. She’ll talk when she’s ready. She joins him for a smoke in silence and when the both of them are down to the filter, they move by unspoken agreement to the fire pit.</p><p>Betsy sets to fueling the fire. Her mouth is pressed into a grim line. Out of the corner of his eye, Boone sees Ten of Spades wander by; the kid almost comes over to join them until Corporal Sterling grabs him by the sleeve and yanks him away. Boone gives the man a nod, appreciative that he sees what’s going on. Ten’s a good kid, but he’s a bit much sometimes. </p><p>He can see the words are on the tip of Betsy’s tongue. Some people like to be prompted to share; neither he or Betsy are one of them. They both like to know the words came out of their own volition. One of the reasons they work so well together. Betsy lights another cigarette, takes a few puffs that are just as frantic in nature as the ones Boone had taken just fifteen minute ago.</p><p>“The LT wants me to go get counseling.” she says finally. “I told him I didn’t need it, but…” </p><p>He doesn’t ask what for. Doesn’t have to. She’d not gotten into detail about what Cook-Cook did to her, but she’d said just enough to give him an idea. Ten of Spades had filled in the gaps another night. If he’d known before he’d shot the man, Boone might have made his death a little messier.</p><p>“The thing is…” she lets out a noise of frustration, kicks sand into the campfire to make it sputter and spark. “I already tried. I went to Medical and sat there for three damn hours in the waiting room. The shrink came out and told me he didn’t have time to see me and to come back some other day. So what the fuck is the point? I have a job to do. I can’t be skating out of work every day for three hours hoping the therapist at Medical will grace me with five minutes of his fucking time just so he can call me a pussy that can’t deal.</p><p>“Anyway,” she continues, “it’s not like I need it. I don’t need special treatment. I can handle my problems. So I’ve been a little aggressive with people in my free time, all he had to do was tell me to stop.” </p><p>Boone knows that tone. He believes in the NCR, but he also knows that it tends to chew up its soldiers and spit them out. And talking about your feelings when you’re struggling isn’t exactly standard operating procedure. If Betsy had just kept her mouth shut and suffered in silence, the lieutenant might not have said anything at all, because that’s how you do in the NCR. Grit your teeth and bear it.</p><p>The young, active-duty Craig Boone would probably have told her that the LT is being an asshole, that Betsy doesn’t need to be coddled with therapy (as if she’s somehow less of a soldier because he suggested it to her). Boone would let her vent, and she’d feel a little better, and they’d both pretend that solved the situation. He’d had plenty of those talks, been on both sides of them.</p><p>Then he came out the other side and found out that sometimes venting isn’t enough.</p><p>He says slowly, “’S not about what you can and can’t handle. You’ve slapped plenty of bandages on in the middle of a fire fight. But you don’t come back and dig the bullet out yourself. You go to medical. Because that’s what it’s there for. To help.”</p><p>Her shoulders go rigid. The light of the fire flickers against her face, stark orange light and deep shadow. Boone doesn’t know if he’s equipped for this conversation. He’s just as fucked up as Betsy is, doesn’t really have a better answer than she does. And he’s not sure why Betsy picked him anyway. Maybe because he’s ex-1<sup>st</sup> Recon. He knows the mission and the cost, but Betsy won’t ever have to stand next to him in a fire fight and wonder if she’s going to crack under the pressure and get him killed. The same bonds that bring squad mates together can drive them apart too. </p><p>“Everyone else is coping just fine.” Betsy says quietly. She’s staring into the fire now, the cigarette in her hand forgotten. Without attention, the cherry has burnt itself out and gone dead.</p><p>Boone says, “Had a squadmate that joined after his whole family was killed by raiders. Seemed put-together most of the time, but he was always a little too reckless in combat. And mean, too. He’d get drunk and take a swing at anyone that was nearby. He got out of the military, got married, had kids. Then one day, his neighbors hear some gunshots, go by to check on them. He’d shot his whole family and then himself.”</p><p>Boone remembers one of those nights when McCormick was loaded and spoiling for a fight. Boone had been – eighteen? Fresh out of his initial training and still star-struck by everyone with a higher rank than him. McCormick had taken a few wild swings at him for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Boone had assumed then that that kind of loss of control was a fluke in the NCR.</p><p>“I heard that story too.” Betsy says woodenly. “There was a girl in my boot camp platoon, got sent to Forlorn Hope and tried to overdose on Med-X. I think she was evac’ed back to California. It’s… fucking messed up, all of it.”</p><p>They both go silent for a moment. What else is there to say? Out in the darkness, a bottle breaks, and several voices start hollering in alarm.</p><p>“I’ll come with you.” Boone says suddenly. “Need to stock up on medical supplies anyway. Six gets me shot more than anyone I know.” </p><p>Betsy doesn’t say anything in response. But when she pushes herself to her feet, abandoning the burnt-out cigarette to the fire, she claps him on the shoulder. He takes that as a good sign.</p><p>After she disappears into the gloom, he sits and stares at the flames, trying to pull himself together a little bit before he hits the rack. He can’t tell whether trying to help Betsy made him feel better or worse. Somehow, it seems to be both at the same time. If Six doesn’t come back tonight, he’s guaranteed some nightmares. Maybe he’ll just stay up instead. But if he does that, he’ll start jonesing for some whiskey. Fuck.</p><p>To his surprise when he ducks through the tent flap, Six is sprawled in his bunk inside the tent, whistling to himself. Boone hadn’t expected him to come back tonight. Maybe Gannon didn’t shoot his shot. He’s a nervous guy, might have chickened out at the last moment. </p><p>Six looks over at him. “Did you tell Arcade to ask me out?” </p><p>Or maybe not. </p><p>Boone sits down on his rack to kick his boots off. “He was fishing for information. Told him you’re attracted to men. Didn’t think it was a secret.” </p><p>“Oh.” is all Six says. Boone doesn’t know what that ‘oh’ means. </p><p>“You not interested?” Boone asks. He doesn’t usually pay much attention to who Six is after - not his business and not remotely interesting - but Six and Arcade seem close. Actually friendly, not like some of the people Six spends time with. They’d make a good pair. </p><p>Six shifts above him, making the bunk shake slightly. It sounds like an uncomfortable kind of shifting. </p><p>“No, I just… I’m pretty sure Arcade is looking for something serious. And I’m not. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.” </p><p>“Guess that makes sense.” Be hard to imagine Six settling down, Boone thinks. Right now, anyway. He’s got more wandering to get out of his bones before that happens. </p><p>“Are you…doing okay?” Six asks after a moment. Boone can’t see him up on the top bunk, so he can’t read into the tone too much, but it sounds like what Six is really asking is what’s wrong with him. He’s not very good at answering that question.</p><p>“…was just hard with that damn drunkard earlier. Made me think – “</p><p>He can’t really voice what it made him think. So the sentence drops off abruptly and lingers in the air. Shit. He hates how dumb it makes him feel, not being able to put words to what’s going through his head. </p><p>“I guess Carla knew. She always disapproved of my drinking. She wasn’t mean about it, but…she just wished I wouldn’t. Guess she was right to feel that way.”</p><p>He doesn’t know where that came from. He doesn’t want to talk about Carla. Or does he? Is that why he brought her up? Maybe he can’t put words to what’s going through his head because even he doesn’t know what’s going through his head. But he knows he doesn’t want to talk about why his hands are trembling, and he doesn’t want to talk about Betsy falling apart somewhere out in the dark, and going to sleep in this state is a lost cause. So why not. It’s apparently the night for hard fucking conversations.</p><p>“Tell me about her.” Six asks. As if it’s that simple. Maybe it is that simple. Boone sprawls out across his bunk and pillows his head on his arms. Tries to think how to explain the most important person he’d ever had in his life, get across even a fraction of her.</p><p> “We met when I was on leave, on the Strip. She teased me about looking lost. Then she invited me out to drinks and dancing just like that. I’d never met a woman as forward as Carla. And looking at her, you’d think… you’d think she was from a different time. A better time.”</p><p>Funnily enough, it’s not meeting Carla that Boone remembers most. He remembers a time from months later, taking her out for breakfast at 3 AM after a night out. She’d wiped her lipstick off on a napkin and then smiled at him, and he’d thought suddenly, <em>I want to see her do that every night. </em>She’d gotten radscorpion eggs and told him how her mother used to make her egg sandwiches with jam on them.</p><p>Six asks, “How old were you when you and Carla got married?” </p><p>“Twenty four. Got married about six months after we met.”</p><p>“Wow. Wouldn’t have expected you to move so fast.” Six says, sounding a little amused. </p><p>Boone sprawls out across his bunk and pillows his head on his arms. It <em>had </em>been fast. Maybe if things had happened a different way, Boone would have worried that it was too fast. Manny sure did.  He thought Carla had him wrapped around her little finger, had even gone as far as to accuse her of using Boone. But nobody had understood what they were like together. If they’d understood, they wouldn’t have doubted. </p><p>“She was like…” Boone stops, fumbling for words. “Don’t know how to explain it. It takes me time to warm up to people, which I guess you know as well as anyone. But it was like Carla knew right away we were meant to be together. Long before I did. I just had to trust her enough to let her get me there. And when I did, we both knew there was no point waiting around any longer.</p><p>“When we signed the papers, things just felt...right. Right in a way they hadn’t felt for a long time. Might have been too fast for other people, but not for us.” </p><p>There’s silence for a long moment. </p><p>“Boone.” A pause. “What…”</p><p>Boone knows exactly what Six is trying to ask, even though it sounds like Six lost his gumption halfway through the question. He probably knew this is where the conversation would end up before Six did.</p><p>He doesn’t see what it helps, to talk about it. He’s spent so long trying not to remember. He doesn’t want to undo all that now. </p><p>Carla’s dead. Carla will always be dead. Carla is not coming back. </p><p>But shit. Boone’s out here telling Betsy not to do it all by herself. This part is shitty to talk about, but it’s not…not something he feels guilty about, at least. He did the right thing. He knows that for certain. He did the only thing there was to do, after he damned Carla by marrying her.</p><p>He’s almost too tired to resist answering. Too tired, too sober, too emotionally drained by his conversation with Betsy.</p><p>“Cottonwood Cove. That’s where they took her.” Boone says haltingly. “They were selling her. The whole place was swarming with Legion, hundreds of them. Bidding for things no man has a right to.” </p><p>Though he can’t remember moving, his arms are no longer crossed underneath his head. One of his hands is clenched on his forearm, nails digging bloody crescents into the skin. The pain helps. He can stop, think about it for a moment. Tune into the feeling of it, and let it push other emotions aside. He digs his nails in harder. </p><p>“There was no way to save her. They would have caught me before I got anywhere close, and Carla… what they do to women…”</p><p>He takes in a deep, raspy breath. His ability to speak is deteriorating rapidly. He doesn’t need to think about what they would have done. They never got the chance. So it doesn’t matter. Fuck what the dreams try to tell him. “I took the shot. It was the only thing I could do. I couldn’t have… it was like I was just watching something that was going to happen, no matter what I did. Once she met me, Carla never even had a chance for anything different.” </p><p>The pain is quickly losing its ability to steady him. Something catches in his chest, causing a shudder to wrack through his body. He digs his nails in even more, but he can barely even feel it.  </p><p>“...Boone, why do you think your wife’s death was your fault?” Six asks quietly.</p><p>Boone tries to answer. But he can’t, because if he opens his mouth now he doesn’t know what might come out. </p><p>There’s a creaking from above. The sound of fabric rustling. Six climbs down from the top bunk slowly, foot searching in the dark along the bottom bunk to make sure he doesn’t step on Boone. When he makes it to the floor without issue, he sits on the edge of the mattress near Boone’s side. Boone doesn’t have any bandwidth to react to that – he’s busy trying to keep his breaths from shuddering, his body from trembling, his eyes from burning all at the same time. He has to stop all that, or Six will feel it. Hear it. It’s dead silent in the tent but for the rustling of Six’s movements and the sound of Boone failing to keep himself together.</p><p>A hand bumps into his shoulder clumsily, then glides down his arm, mapping out where Boone’s body is in the darkness. The hand finds where Boone has clenched his fingernails into skin and carefully separates the two, offering itself for sacrifice instead. Boone accepts and grips the offered hand. It must hurt, how hard he’s clenching, but Six doesn’t protest. Another shudder runs through his body before he can stop it. </p><p>“It was not your fault.” Six says to him gently. “Boone. It wasn’t your fault.” </p><p>Boone opens his mouth, closes it again. He can’t speak without losing it. He takes a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. When he tries to speak again, what comes out is not words, but instead a keening, inhuman cry. His body is expelling the sound so violently that he can’t cut it off, can’t do anything but tremble, light-headed from lack of oxygen. He rolls onto his side, trying to bury his face in his pillow and stifle the noise. His knees bump into Six’s hip. He’s still death-gripping Six’s hand. The pillow is damp and hot under his face. He’s practically convulsing and he can’t stop it.</p><p>Carla is <em>dead. </em>Her secretive smile, her soft skin, her corny sense of humor. Dead. She’ll never paint her toenails on the couch and accidentally wipe polish on the cushion again. She’ll never kiss the back of his sun-burned neck and cradle his face with her cool hands. She’ll never tell him with wonder in her voice about the baby bassinet that Alice McBride had promised them, about how Carla wants to move the nightstands away from the bed so she can keep the baby as close as possible in the night. Dead. Dead. Dead.</p><p>Dead. And he killed her. </p><p>There’s a light touch on the back of his head, and then a firmer, warm pressure. A thumb is rubbing at the skin just behind his ear. He thinks Six might also be muttering something to him, but he doesn’t have the concentration to make out what it might be. He curls up tighter, realizes his body is clenched around Six like a snake strangling its prey. He can’t stop. He can’t stop. Every time he tries to open his mouth, another keening cry comes out. His lungs hurt from the force of it. His head pounds. He gasps into the wet pillow under his face and nearly suffocates, turns his head to bury his face into the hand he’s gripping instead. </p><p>Boone doesn’t know how long they stay like that. The grief feels endless and hollow, gnawing away at the inside of him like a disease. But the thumb rubbing circles behind his ear is patient and the hand pressed against his face is steady and present. Eventually, Boone’s body loses strength and his stranglehold on Six loosens. The sensation of grief fades into the feel of a warm body pressed against his chest and his thighs and his face. His thoughts lose shape and coherence and drift away one by one.</p><p>He doesn’t know it, but after he closes his eyes and his grip on Six’s hand finally goes slack, Six pulls the blanket up over him and wipes off his face with the edge of it. Then Six lifts Boone’s head gently and flips the pillow over to the other side, because Six can’t remember exactly where it happened or why, but he knows from personal experience that falling asleep on a pillow wet with tears is uncomfortable. </p><p>He doesn’t get up right away. He stays perched on the edge of the bed and strokes the prickly stubble on Boone’s head, the thick tanned skin of his neck. Six wonders how long that storm had been locked up inside Boone’s body waiting to get out. She wonders if letting it out will give Boone a sense of relief, or if he’ll pretend it never happened.</p><p>Six has stood on the edge of this particular canyon of emotion himself a thousand times. But he’s always done it alone. Alone, it grows larger and deeper each time he falls into it, and it gets a bit harder to climb back out. So whenever he feels that edge drawing near, he slips into a bed or a bar or a back alleyway and presses his skin to someone else’s until it disappears again. He leaves with a good memory. And if those strangers never ask more of him than a name – if he stops coming around to anyone that starts to ask for more – it’s just because he doesn’t want them feeling obligated to suffer though his sob story. But he does wonder in this moment whether it would feel nice to do what Boone has done, and stay.</p><p>Of course, then he unwraps himself from the cradle of Boone’s body and climbs back up into his own bunk. Old habits die hard.</p><p>Boone doesn’t know any of this happens, but when he wakes up the next morning with a raging headache, his canteen is full of water and there’s a couple of painkillers next to it. He takes the painkillers and drinks the water. He thinks briefly about whether he regrets the events of the night before. Then, answer found, he goes in search of his partner.  </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 10 notes: discussion of the treatment of mental health care by the military, including bad opinions of people who use or need it and difficulties accessing it. Vague reference to Betsy's sexual assault by Cook-Cook. Brief reference to a murder-suicide. Brief reference to a suicide attempt. Canon-compliant description of Carla's death and Boone's feelings about being complicit in it. Grieving and a breakdown. </p><p>Every time I write these warnings I'm like, 'why does anyone read this depressing story?' You all are troopers.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Your patience has paid off. I suspect you all will enjoy this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They spend the next few weeks in McCarran, running odd jobs for Freeside and the NCR. Six rounds up alcoholics and narcos and leads them back to the Old Mormon Fort like some kind of drug-busting pied piper. Boone roots out a supply leak at McCarran and goes with Betsy to her first therapy appointment. After a week’s worth of hesitation on Boone’s part and some quiet conversation with Betsy, she returns the favor and escorts him to his own. It becomes a routine. </p><p>Gannon mopes a bit after Six turns him down, but he must get over it eventually, because he keeps tagging along to help them out with whatever they’re occupying themselves with. He and Boone become, if not friends, then two people that can exist in the same space and sometimes even enjoy it. Gannon chatters a lot when he works on his experiments, and he likes to have someone there to grunt occasionally in his direction and validate whatever he’s saying. </p><p>After Six and Boone follow different threads that lead them to the same near-shootout at an NCR humanitarian supply point, Six collapses against the wall of a building and heaves a sigh of relief, tilting his head back against the brick. Boone takes a seat next to him and pulls out his canteen. </p><p>“You know what I need?” Six asks, accepting the canteen from Boone after Boone’s drained down half of its contents. “I need a night out. Let’s go to Vegas tonight. Get wild.” </p><p>It’s the least appealing thing that Boone can possibly think of, but he thinks grudgingly that he should probably agree. He knows that half the reason they’ve been staying at McCarran is because he feels comfortable there, not because Six wants to be staying in a drafty military tent with raucous soldiers interrupting their sleep every five minutes. He can suck it up and spend a night out with Six. He used to do it all the time with his squadmates, anyway. Sometimes it was even a good time. </p><p>“Guess I’ll clear my schedule.” he says musingly. Six smiles and closes his eyes, tilting his tanned face up to the sun. </p><p>--</p><p>Walking into the Lucky 38 is just as unnerving as it had been the first time. Boone had thought about suggesting they stay at the Vault 21 instead, but it seems wasteful to pay for a room when they have a whole casino to themselves. Still, something about the emptiness of a place that should be filled and lively tugs at nerves. Places like that are always empty for a reason.</p><p>The strange cowboy securitron has abandoned his post in the elevator, so they ride up to the high-roller suite in silence. Boone trudges into the same room he’d stayed in last time and drops his pack on the velvet-covered bed with a frown, wondering how he’s going to sleep tonight without someone else in the room. He’s gotten used to that, grown dependent on it. </p><p>He’s picked up a couple of things to wear besides his trail clothes, but nothing near as nice as he’d need for a night out, so Gannon lent him a suit that seems mostly inoffensive. Boone lays it out on the bed and strips down to take a shower in the bathroom attached to the bedroom. One thing he doesn’t miss from McCarran - the semi-public showers consisting of a bunch of cinder block stalls with too-small privacy curtains. It feels nice to relax under the hot water and not worry that someone is going to come barging in on him, and the amenities are far better than he’s used to. Gleaming tile, a fancy sink with an uncracked mirror, and soft, thick bath towels. He scrubs every inch of his body until he’s pink, carefully shaves off a week’s worth of stubble in the mirror, and stands back to look at himself. </p><p>Tanner than he’d expected. In all that time doing sentry duty for Novac he’d lost his color. Got a little bit of a tan line where his beret covers his head, but it doesn’t bother him too much. He’d gotten a fresh haircut a few days ago too, and while it’s not exactly the slick pompadours that most Vegas-goers wear, it feels good to him to see it in the mirror. He looks about as trim as he ever has. </p><p>That’s surprising. In a good way. </p><p>When he pulls on the suit (charcoal grey and double-breasted over a white shirt, the most sedate option Gannon had showed him), he’s relieved to find it fits mostly well. A little snug around the shoulders and the arms, because Gannon is built like a toothpick, but he’s not going to be doing anything strenuous to pop a seam. The pants are almost too long. The shoes are the strangest part; so much lighter than his usual boots. He digs a cloth out of his pack and buffs away the scuffs caused by being shoved into his pack. </p><p>Six isn’t in the hallway when he emerges from his suite, so he takes the elevator down to the casino floor and investigates a little bit. Even though the Lucky 38 has been closed a long time, there’s no dust anywhere that he touches. Someone must be cleaning then. Maybe the securitron? All of the tables are orderly and ready, waiting for patrons that won’t show. Boone thinks about shifting a few things around just to see what happens when they come back tonight; he decides he doesn’t want to find out and abandons the idea to check out the bar instead.</p><p>It’s still stocked. Boone’s hand reaches almost automatically for the whiskey, and before he knows it, he’s picked it up. He sets it back down and gets himself a glass of water. Wonders if he’ll ever get used to sitting on a bar stool without a drink in his hand.  </p><p>Fifteen minutes later, the doors to the elevator whoosh open and Six appears. </p><p>Having already seen Six gussied up once before, Boone had thought he was prepared. Clearly he has forgotten just how natural elegance looks on Six. It’s a different suit than Boone had seen the first time - this one is a dark blue number with a grey collared shirt underneath. The shirt is subtly patterned and silky, the sheen of it catching under the casino lights. Instead of his practical braid, Six has done something complicated with the plait so that it twists in dozens of loosely interlocking rivulets all the way down. The way it drips over the front of his suit jacket makes it look like a dark, cool river just waiting for someone to run their hand through it.</p><p>Boone has a sudden, strange thought about the logistics of that hair during sex. Does Six pull it loose in bed? Boone had loved to see Carla take her hair down, spread it across the pillows as they made love. Six has come back more than a few times with it more hastily braided than usual, so he must let it down. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this. Maybe because he’s not that used to men with long hair.</p><p>The only thing that saves him from being embarrassed by his odd turn of thought is the fact that Six is strangely silent as he looks Boone up and down. Boone glances down at the suit he’s wearing, wondering if it’s too shabby for Six’s taste. Maybe <em>he’s </em>too shabby for Six’s taste. New Vegas isn’t a pair of rusty bunks in a dusty military tent. Putting him in a suit is akin to putting lipstick on a pig.</p><p>“That’s the suit Arcade lent to you?” Six asks, his voice strange. “It looks...uh...different.” </p><p>He’s still looking at Boone. It’s making Boone wildly uncomfortable. He resists the urge to tug at the collar.</p><p>“‘S a little tight around the shoulders. Was the best option, though.” Boone says. It’s certainly better fitting than anything he’d worn as a younger man, but it’s not like his squadmates had had standards for that kind of thing. They’d been young and wild and thought anything they wore would be dashing. Maybe it’s too dull. </p><p>“No, no, it’s fine. More than fine. You ready?” Six asks. Boone leaves his half-drank water on the bar and they head out onto the Strip. </p><p>Always feels weird to him to be here. On the other side of a wall, the real world is still going on - people are scraping caps together just to get by, the NCR is fighting Legionaries and raiders and Fiends, the Followers are treating drug addiction and researching ways to keep them all from dying of radiation poisoning. But here, it’s as if they’ve been transported to another world. The sheer extravagance of New Vegas could make you think the world never ended. Couples are strolling arm-in-arm, deep in the first bloom of young love. Soldiers off-duty are just this side of belligerently drunk as they catcall showgirls and casino criers. All around them are the bright neon lights of the Strip mingling with the sounds of laughter and cheering. The air is thick with the scent of perfume and excitement. It’s a heady mix. Boone can’t tell if he likes it or if it makes him want to crawl into a hole and never come out. A showgirl for Gomorrah catches his eye and smiles predatorily, and he quickly realizes that actually he <em>can </em>tell.</p><p>Boone’s casino of choice has always been the Tops, but he can imagine that’s not a comfortable place for Six to be. Even if he’s welcome there (and Boone assumes that the rest of the Chairmen don’t know Six’s involvement in their Head Chairman’s death), it can’t have good memories for him. So instead, they seat themselves at a poker table in the smaller casino and play a few hands. </p><p>“You are <em>deceptively </em>good at poker.” Six protests after Boone takes his money for the third time. For all his ability to charm and coquet, a poker player Six is not. </p><p>“Beginner’s luck.” Boone says, looking Six dead in the eye as he carefully adds Six’s chips to his stack. It’s a nice feeling to make Six laugh. They play a few more hands, and when the last of Six’s chips end up in Boone’s stack, they call it quits. Boone carefully counts out the portion he’d won from Six and hands the chips back with a wry smile. </p><p>Six pays him back at the Blackjack table. Apparently, Six has a mind for numbers, which Boone has never been given reason to find out. He’s not quite at the level of counting cards, but it almost seems like he could if he wanted and just doesn’t want them to get tossed out of the casino. He steadily wins back almost everything that Boone loses to the house, which keeps them in chips enough to take their time and enjoy the experience. </p><p>If Boone didn’t know better, he’d think Six didn’t notice the looks that he’s getting from his fellow patrons and even from their suavely-dressed dealer. But Boone does know better. Six seems to be unconsciously in tune with the attention of everyone around them, and he knows exactly how much to smile to encourage or discourage attention, what to say to send away a clingy admirer, how to prompt a laugh from Boone or the dealer or their fellow players. In the course of a couple of hours, Six accepts three drinks sent from other tables, and each time he easily manages to acknowledge the gift gracefully while still declining the insinuated invitation. </p><p>Boone wonders, as he asks the dealer for a hit and finds that he’s gone bust on this hand, if he’s cockblocking Six right now. Is there any non-embarrassing way to ask that? He doesn’t want to think that Six is just humoring him, maybe waiting for him to throw in his cards and head back to the Lucky 38 so he can go out and find a better time. When Boone sneaks a glance at Six, he seems as content as can be to sip his Nuka Cola and whiskey and play another hand. But reading Six is like looking into a mirror sometimes. He reflects back whatever it is you want to see, not what he’s actually feeling. </p><p>The therapist had told Boone that his ‘feelings of inferiority’ aren’t rooted in reality and that Boone should challenge them when they come up. Boone doesn’t think he has feelings of inferiority. He knows his own sense of worth as a soldier, as a marksman. He knows there are other places - like in conversation - that he doesn’t measure up. That’s not a sense of inferiority, that’s a statement of reality. He tries to imagine how he’d feel if he was Six, hanging out with Boone on the Strip. Would he be having a good time? Would he be bored? Does Six feel the need to pay him back in attention because Boone partners with him out in the Mojave? </p><p>Boone realizes that the dealer is staring at him politely. Boone hurriedly asks for a hit without consulting his cards and busts again. It seems like a sign. </p><p>They play a few more hands, and when Boone drains down the last of his sarsaparilla he stands and shoves the meager remains of his chips towards Six. </p><p>“That’s enough gambling for me. Gonna head back.” he says. </p><p>Six stands too, all graceful lines and angles, and slides a stack of chips to the dealer as a tip before carefully stacking Boone’s and his together and scooping them up. </p><p>“We’ll cash in then.” </p><p>Boone waits impatiently while Six gets his payout. Does that mean Six is coming back with him? Is Six humoring him? Maybe they’ll walk out together and then Six will split off to wherever he’d want to go without Boone trailing him around. Gomorrah, maybe. </p><p>But Six follows him all the way back to the Lucky 38 and up the steps. At the door, Boone stops and turns to him. </p><p>“Don’t need to call it a night if you want to stay out longer.” he says cautiously. Six just gives him a disarmingly charming grin and pulls the door open for Boone. </p><p>“We’ve managed to make it back with money still in our pockets. I don’t think we need to tempt fate any more than that.” </p><p>Boone gives him a long look and then walks into the Lucky 38. </p><p>It’s later than he thought - casinos are good at hiding the passage of time when you’re gambling - but not so late that he feels the need to actually turn in. He bypasses the dark casino floor in favor of the more habitable high-roller’s suite and inspects the selection of alcohol in the kitchen. Maybe he should try having a beer. Not like one beer can get him in that much trouble. </p><p>He pours himself a glass of water and takes a sip from it sourly. At least he’s not on his knees in front of a toilet right now.</p><p>Being sober has its advantages. </p><p>It does. </p><p>He hears a sound from across the suite and goes to investigate. Six is bent over a table in the billiards room stacking pool balls into the rack. He’s discarded his suit jacket, leaving the softly patterned grey button-down to shine under the dim casino lighting. When he bends over, the undone buttons at the collar give Boone a glimpse of his collarbone. Six senses Boone’s presence, looks up and gestures to the table. </p><p>“You play? Want a round?” he asks. </p><p>“Sure.” Boone agrees. While he sets down his drink on a nearby table and pulls down a couple of pool cues to try, Six disappears and reappears with a glass of whiskey. To his credit, Six seems to have figured out Boone’s commitment to sobriety and is careful to set the glass across the room, well away from Boone’s. Six is always thoughtful like that. Boone sheds his own jacket and rolls the sleeves up over his forearms so he can take his shots without tearing a hole in anything.</p><p>Since Six racked the balls, Boone cracks them. All of the sticks are a bit warped, but not so badly that he can’t get a clean crack. The pool balls scatter across the table, and to Boone’s (somewhat smug) satisfaction, the six ball drops neatly into a corner pocket. </p><p>“Of all the numbers. I thought this was a friendly game, and here you are already out for blood.” Six says, narrowing his eyes at Boone in mock exasperation. Boone huffs a laugh, sinks another ball. </p><p>He beats Six handily three times in a row. Six isn’t a push-over at pool, but he’s clearly less experienced, and he has the handicap of a few drinks under his belt. </p><p>“Pool stick’s not so different from a sniper rifle.” he says, amused, when Six feigns outrage at his third loss. “Plus, I used to play for pocket money when I was a teenager. Got good at it. ...got into some trouble because of it too.” </p><p>“Oh? Was teenage Craig Boone that much of a troublemaker?” Six asks. His tone is playful. Boone notices that his speech has slowed just a bit, that he’s having to put in some extra effort to make sure the syllables don’t come out slurred. Not drunk, but certainly tipsy. Makes it easier to believe he’s really having a good time. Boone likes that. </p><p>“Family lived on a farm. The boys in town didn’t like it when a hick showed up at the bar and embarrassed them in front of their townie girlfriends.” he admits. He’d gotten a black eye or two in his day. Given a few too. That’s all behind him now, but it’s nice to hear Six laugh about it. </p><p>“Well then, I guess I should be asking the master for lessons in pool too, just like I did with shooting.” </p><p>“Not sure if you’re redeemable.” Boone says, just to see that smile again. But he amiably fishes some pool balls out of the pockets and scatters them across the table, then lines the cue ball up to set up a shot. He can feel Six’s eyes on him as he leans over the table and checks his setup. </p><p>“Watch. ‘S all about follow-through, just like with a rifle. You want a smooth, clean shot. No jerking the stick. Keep a light grip.” </p><p>It’s funny - Boone hasn’t had a drink all night, and yet there’s something heady and a bit hazy about the night now. The lights are dim, his mind is quiet, and all he has to worry about is the man currently leaning over the pool table, trying to emulate Boone’s stance while his braid falls over his shoulder and across his pool stick. All his anxiety from earlier has fallen away. It feels like it could stretch on forever, just the two of them in this room. </p><p>“Hold up. Need to fix your setup.” he says, before Six can take the shot. As Boone leans in to move Six’s arm and nudge his body to the right a bit, he can feel the heat emanating off Six and the warm, musky smell of him, mixed with a hit of cologne. Six’s arm is firm, muscular under his fingers. </p><p>What was he doing? </p><p>Stance. Pool stance. </p><p>Boone rips his attention back to his teaching duties and carefully adjusts Six’s position. Six makes the shot…</p><p>...and completely misses the ball. </p><p>Boone can’t help but let out a laugh, though he feels bad about it when he sees the embarrassed way Six stands up. The self-deprecating smile Six gives him makes a warm feeling bloom in his stomach. </p><p>“Guess I’m a glass or two farther in than I thought.” Six says, sounding a bit unsteady. There’s a light flush across his high cheekbones. Must be the alcohol. “Or maybe my instructor is intentionally leading me astray so he can keep his edge. It’s hard to tell.” </p><p>“Not sure you’re that gullible.” Boone says, to keep up the banter. It’s a little bit warm in the room. He takes a long drink off his water, feeling overheated. Maybe he should take off the collared shirt too. He’s got an undershirt on, wouldn’t be anything Six hasn’t already seen. </p><p>“Depends on the person.” Six says back. He leans against the pool table, head tilted towards Boone with a playful look in his eye. The stance looks oddly familiar. It looks like -</p><p>- Like how Six had done when he’d introduced himself to Boone. The night that, Six admitted later, he’d been flirting with him. </p><p>Boone replays the last hour and feels his ears go hot. Is that what they’re doing right now? Flirting? </p><p>Six’s carefully un-buttoned shirt. Boone’s hand wrapped around his arm, the smell of musk and cologne in his nose. Banter that’s just a little bit more personal than normal. A warm, tight feeling in his abdomen. </p><p>Christ. They are. They’re flirting. </p><p>Six is drunk and flirting with him. </p><p>Boone must do something to tip off what he’s thinking, make some sort of expression, because Six’s smile goes dim, and he crosses to the table to take a sip off his whiskey, posture closing up as he turns away from Boone. The atmosphere gets suddenly awkward. Boone’s ears are burning, and his thoughts are bouncing all over the place. </p><p>Six is drunk and he doesn’t mean it. And even if he does - well, Boone’s not one for casual relationships. He’d have figured Six knew that. </p><p>And he’s not - it’s not been that long since. Since Carla. Boone’s not ready to move on. Kind of feels like he might not ever be ready to move on. How do you move on from something like that? Feels…. like a betrayal. Of her memory. </p><p>They’re so different, Six and Carla. Not just a gender thing. People complained that Carla was closed off, but she’d never been like that with him. She’d known what they were to each other from that first moment, and even if it had taken time for Boone to get to that level in return, he’d still felt how easy things were between them. Things with Six are different. He’s constantly caught off-guard in all kinds of different ways with Six.  </p><p>It’s also that Six is a man, though. Is Boone attracted to men? He can’t recall ever feeling that way before. But truth be told, he’s never really had a need to think about it. Never developed feelings for someone that didn’t show some interest in him first, and no man’s ever tried to flirt with him as outrageously as Six does. Maybe Boone’s just a sucker for anyone that shows interest. Maybe he’s starved for affection. </p><p>“‘S getting late.” he says stiltedly. He couldn’t sound more embarrassed if he tried. Six nods his head in acknowledgement, gives him a closed-mouth smile. </p><p>“Yeah. Time to hit the hay, I think.” </p><p>They leave the billiards room in silence. Boone feels the threads of the night slipping through his fingers. He wants to say something, to at least salvage the platonically easy air they’d had before, but his mouth is dry and he can’t think of anything. Six looks like he thinks Boone needs space, and he’s trying to be respectful and give it to him. Shit. Double shit. Boone wishes Six wouldn’t treat him like that. One of them needs to lead, and Boone is so used to Six doing it that when he stops, Boone is left in the lurch. </p><p>When they part in the hallway, it takes everything Boone has to not run into his room and slam the door shut behind him. Deliberately slowly, he walks into the room and sets to undressing. He hangs the suit up carefully, splashes some cold water on his face, and collapses on the bed in his underwear to stare at the ceiling and think. </p><p>His mind is filled with images of the night. Seeing Six gussied up in that trim blue suit, his hair begging to be pulled loose. Looking Six in the eye at the poker table to tell if he’s bluffing on a shit hand. Six leaning against the table with that soft, easy smile on his face, his eyes focused directly on Boone. Six spread out under him, hair loose against the pi-</p><p><em>That </em>is not something that happened tonight. And yet, Boone can’t put it out of his mind. He wants to see Six like that, naked and smiling and pulling him down for a lazy kiss. </p><p>Okay. So he’s attracted to Six. Six is handsome and flirtatious. So it’s not really that surprising. Boone isn’t normally a sucker for a pretty face, but still.  </p><p>The cool, silken sheets of the bed feel good against his bare, overheated skin. He realizes that certain parts of him are straining at the front of his boxer briefs with an eagerness he can’t remember the last time he felt. Boone’s too worked up to feel embarrassed over it. He’d made a fool of himself tonight, but nobody’s in his bedroom to see him be a fool now, so he might as well take advantage. </p><p>He shoves the briefs down his legs and kicks them off onto the floor. Closes his eyes and lets the images wash over him. </p><p>A knock would come at his door. He’d open it, see Six standing there in that patterned grey shirt with the buttons undone. Six would give Boone that flirtatious smile, the one that puts dimples in his cheeks, and Boone would grab him by the front of that shirt and kiss the expression right off his face. Would Six’s lips be soft? Chapped? Would he kiss back gently, or would he be rough? </p><p>Boone would maneuver Six to the bed and shove him down onto it, set to work stripping him of his clothes. The little he’d seen of Six’s chest was bare; would he be totally smooth, or would Boone find traces of hair here and there, something for him to run his fingers through? </p><p>Boone flips over on the bed, shoves a pillow under his hips, and presses into it with a sharp exhale. His cock is so hard it’s painful. It’s like his body has been storing up lust all this time, and now that it’s been released it’s trying to all come out at once. It’s overwhelming.</p><p>He grips the silken sheets tightly, imagines that it’s Six’s hair spread out across them. Black like the sky under a new moon against all that white. Boone imagines unzipping Six’s trousers, pushing them down so they can be skin-to-skin. </p><p>He’s never touched another man’s dick. Maybe some of the others in his platoon had at some point, but if they had they’d kept it a secret. Boone’s hand slithers between his hips and the pillow to wrap around his length, trying to imagine that it’s Six’s cock he’s touching, that it’s Six’s hand on him. Would it feel just like this? What would they do? Maybe just rut up against each other, let the slick slide of their bodies be enough. Maybe Six would slip down and take him in his mouth, suck until Boone was struggling to keep from thrusting into that hot, wet heat. Maybe Boone would give the blowjob instead, kneeling on the side of the bed between Six’s thighs, Six’s large hand splayed against the back of Boone’s head and coaxing him to take Six further down his throat. He imagines Six coming down his throat, on his face, on his chest. He imagines the taste of Six in his mouth, of experiencing that and then coming back up to kiss Six again with the taste still on his tongue. </p><p>He comes so hard and so unexpectedly that he doesn’t even have a chance to muffle his shout. The noise is like someone punched him in the stomach. Boone shudders, cock spurting all over his hand and onto the pillow.  </p><p>Fuck. Shit. His brain buzzes, full of white noise that won’t let any thought through. He’s collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, his come warm and sticky against his softening cock and the damp fabric under his pelvis.  </p><p>Shit. Shit. Fuck. <em>Shit. </em>He’s never going to be able to look Six in the eye again. Besides, he practically just ensured that Six knows what he’s up to by having the loudest orgasm in New Vegas. Boone might as well pack his things right now and disappear into the Mojave. This night is going to haunt him forever. What the hell was he thinking? He <em>wasn’t</em> thinking, that was the damned problem.</p><p>Well, at least he’s not jerking off to thoughts of his dead wife anymore. Boone doesn’t know if this is better. It doesn’t feel like it’s better. It feels disrespectful to the both of them.  </p><p>And Six was probably just drunk and randy. He’s shown absolutely zero inclination to have a serious relationship with anyone, and as horny as Boone had just been, he still knows that he’s not interested in a casual relationship. Knows just as equally that Six isn’t looking for anything more serious. Neither is Boone.</p><p>Slowly, Boone pushes up and away from the sticky pillow, grimacing at the mess he’s made. At least he still has one to sleep on. He throws the pillow onto the floor on the far side of the bed and trudges to the bathroom to clean up. </p><p>What the hell is he going to do now?</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 10 warnings: continuing struggles by an alcoholic to stay sober. Feelings of inferiority. Masturbation.</p><p>You may recall that there are three versions of this fic, all featuring a Courier of a different gender. That was actually not that difficult to manage until this chapter, for...obvious reasons.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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